


The Silence of the Christmas-Lighted Declaration

by hallowgirl



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Boris Speak, Christmas, Companionable Snark, First Kiss, Foe Yay, Love Actually - Freeform, M/M, Opposites Attract, Rival Romance, with friends like these
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5972905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowgirl/pseuds/hallowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"David wonders quite how he might one day have to explain to his grandchildren why he is spending the Christmas Eve of 2015, crouched in his car in Dartmouth Park, with George Osborne and Nick Clegg acting as the world's most reluctant carol singers, while he tries to scribble a Christmas-lighted whiteboard message to Ed Miliband, but he supposes it's one of those situations where you just have to be there."</p>
<p>David has a Christmas card problem. Nick and George are exasperated. Miliband is endearingly irritating. Boris and Jacob are maddeningly eloquent. And everyone else is convinced David has some ulterior motive for wanting to send a Christmas message to the former Leader of the Opposition. Camerband. (Could also be Cleggborne/Osballs if you squint.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silence of the Christmas-Lighted Declaration

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by me wanting some Christmas-themed Camerband (two months ago) and repeated viewings of Love Actually. Leave a comment if you enjoy David desperately trying to deliver a Christmas message to Ed with absolutely no ulterior motive. (OK, some ulterior motives.)

 

David wonders quite how he might one day have to explain to his grandchildren why he is spending the Christmas Eve of 2015, crouched in his car in Dartmouth Park, with George Osborne and Nick Clegg acting as the world's most reluctant carol singers, while he tries to scribble a Christmas-lighted whiteboard message to Ed Miliband, but he supposes it's one of those situations where you just have to be there.

"Oh, I'm sure we just have to be there" George mutters, when David voices this thought aloud. "I'm sure everyone would have to be in this situation to believe just how utterly _ridiculous_ it is."

"I wouldn't usually agree with George-" Nick half-shoves a page of song lyrics onto the seat. "But I'd say on this occasion, he isn't phrasing it strongly enough."

David rolls his eyes. He's quite used to rolling his eyes around George and Nick.

"It's not as though you two have to do it."

George and Nick both make similar sounds of gratitude for this which George chooses to express as "Thank all the fucking gods for that, then."

David supposes this might not be something _he_ would have entirely expected either, but then again, thinking back to when he first came up with this-admittedly rather novel-idea, he has to say that drastic times call for drastic measures.

It's mid-December when the Christmas cards start pouring in and David has to turn his attention to the Christmas card list of the people who'll be getting personal messages. And when he gets to Miliband's, he finds himself staring at the stupid card for three days, wondering exactly what one should write when one has single-handedly destroyed another man's career (and is continually rather troubled with thoughts about what that other man in particular would say about that, and about most other things too.)

(He can practically hear Miliband saying _Good to see Tory arrogance hasn't_ _diminished_ and that just makes the problem far worse.)

Sitting in his office, he sighs, stares at the empty card one more time and dials the number that he supposes he's known, all along, that he was going to end up calling. Sometimes, one simply needs a sympathetic friend to talk to.

**

"I would rather jump from that window, slit my own throat, and defect to Labour than help you with this plan, Dave."

Or failing that, George.

David sighs and gives George a long-suffering look. (A lot of his and George's friendship consists of long-suffering looks. David sometimes thinks it might be why they get on so well.)

"It's not help me with a plan" he argues. "It's help me _formulate_ a plan. To wish Miliband a Happy Christmas."

""Happy Christmas-" George snaps his fingers. "I took your job."" Happy Christmas. I hope you're doing a better job of faking happiness with your wife-""

"I'm not going to write that on a card-"

"Why not, it's written on his face."

David rolls his eyes. "You don't even _know_ Miliband fakes any happiness with his wife."

George snorts and David waits for it. "Well, I bet _she_ fakes a few things with _him-"_

"OK." David holds up a hand. "I was hoping you'd have some constructive _advice_ for someone who is in fact one of your oldest friends, but apparently, you'd rather be making crude insinuations-"

"Is that a new film? _Crude Insinuations?"_

"You'd know, Mr. Lashed To The Mast."

"And so would you, Prime Minister of the Cross-Species Coalition."

"Shut up, George."

Their eyes meet and they share a rueful smile. It's David who breaks the silence. "Honestly, I need your help, George."

George sighs and lets his head flop back in the chair. "If I need anything when I'm Prime Minister, I'm going to be sure to remind you of this."

"You won't be like this when you're Prime Minister, George."

The corner of George's mouth twitches.

"You'll be like this when Boris is Prime Minister."

**

Two days later, David and George are no closer to finding a solution as to what to write in Miliband's Christmas card. He's sent out the rest, handing over George's in person.

"Oh, look at that-" George flops back in his chair, eyes skimming over the words. "And in amongst our traditional wondrous greetings to one another-"

"Sealed with a loving kiss, Osborne-"

_"Thank you for all your work-"_ Yes, thank you for all your work, sitting here, staring at a stupid Christmas card, when I could be listening to all the praise I'm _not_ getting for reversing the stupid tax credit cuts-"

"Don't say that to the media" David advises him, before he thuds his head into his hands. "Fuck. Why does it have to be bloody _Miliband_ who's the difficult one?"

George raises an eyebrow. "Because with you, Miliband's _always_ the difficult one."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

George shrugs. "You're the one agonizing over what to write on his Christmas card."

David draws in a long breath and blows it out slowly, raking his fingers through his hair. George watches with the hint of a smirk. "You know that won't make it grow back."

"Shut up, George. "

George laughs. "But honestly" he says quietly. "Maybe you should wonder why you're so worried about getting his card right."

David doesn't know why, but then he doesn't know why when it comes to a lot of his behaviour around Miliband.

"What did you write in your card?" he says. "To Danny?"

George snorts. "David, Danny and I are not you and Miliband."

David stares at him and George just arches an eyebrow. "You can look at it if you want, but it's not going to do you much good."

David could ask what he means but it's easier not to. So he settles for saying "I could look at what I said to Nick-"

"Better yet, get Nick involved." George leans back in the chair. "He could probably come up with more than _Dear Ed, Why I am I obsessed with your card?"_

David glares. "I'm not obsessed with Miliband."

George meets his eyes and smiles. "I never said you were. I said you were obsessed with his _card."_

David mouths silently for a moment, and George leans back, saying lazily "Anyway, you and Nick aren't the same as you and Miliband, but he might have some advice."

David glares at him. "You're saying this because you're fed up of hearing about this card, aren't you?" He scrolls through the contacts on his private phone, letting Nick know it isn't a work matter.

"No-" George smiles, tugs at his tie. "I'm saying this because I'm fed up of hearing about this card, _alone."_

David rolls his eye, pressing the Call button without looking. "And you want Nick to share the misery?"

George smirks. "Trust me, Dave, I think Nick's got plenty of misery to deal with."

The next voice is rather sharp, echoes, and is definitely not David or George's. "Thank you, George."

It's also rather definitely Nick's.

George and David exchange glances quickly, and David stares at the phone. "Oh Christ, the speakerphone-"

"We've _told_ you about the bloody speakerphone-"

David rolls his eyes. "For the last time, I _know_ how to work the bloody speakerphone-"

Nick's voice breaks into the room again. "Evidently not."

David swears. George leans back and smiles triumphantly. Nick, on the other end of the phone, sighs. "It's nice to know your greetings haven't changed, I suppose."

*

Nick just looks at David for a long moment and then says "Tell me this isn't typical Prime Ministerial business."

An hour later, David is beginning to wish he had a thesaurus-and not the apparently useless one Nick keeps bringing up on his phone which he's stabbing at with one finger as though the device has personally stolen a few Lib Dem seats. George, for his part, is leaning back in his chair, with his tie loosened around his neck and tossing out the words "You know, you could just send him a "Happy Christmas" and have done with it."

David throws up his hands. "No, I couldn't." He snatches up the card Miliband has sent him. "Look at this."

George looks at it, arches an eyebrow. "At least the one you got had a message to distract from the photo." He grabs his mobile, and after a few seconds hands it to David, who finds himself staring at the slightly bizarre image of what appears to be a selfie-though David has to admit, Miliband's boys look rather sweet.

George seems less enamoured. "Why has Miliband cut half his wife's face out of the picture? It looks like she's trying to climb in from the side."

Nick rolls his eyes. "Don't write that in the card."

He moves round the desk, and stares down at the card Miliband sent to David. David, deciding there's no point in not allowing himself to revel in the suffering fully, doesn't bother to stop him reading it out.

" _Presumably, you'll be regarding Labour with some trepidation, given how inaccurate polls have proven to be for you in the past-"_ Nick snorts. "OK, that's quite good."

"I didn't need a reminder." David wonders if he could snatch a cigarette off Nick, then decides to take the higher road.

Nick sighs. "What you wrote in my card was fine."

_"Fine?"_ David almost explodes. "I spent _hours-"_

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Well, you wouldn't want me to spare your feelings."

David stares at him. "When on earth did I tell you that?"

"You wrote it in the card."

*

An hour later, they still haven't made any progress and David is rather worried that George seems to be contemplating murder.

"I mean it" he says, now striding about the room without a suit. "I'm considering it." He shoots Nick a meaningful look. "Then again, that would hardly surprise Clegg, given I'm apparently _a very dangerous person-"_

Nick gives him a gesture that might have lost him a few more seats. George returns it and David rolls his eyes. "I just...don't know what to say-"

"Dave-" Nick's watching a little oddly now. "Not to pry or anything-but-is there a _reason_ you're so worried about getting Miliband's card right?"

"Oh no" says George sarcastically, before David can get a word in. "None at all. Absolutely spick-and-span of any underlying motivation."

"George, sound a little less Bullingdon." Nick has his eyes fixed on David's, his head tilted to the side curiously now but he says nothing more.

*

Half an hour later, the three of them are staring at a card that is remaining stubbornly blank and David is cleaning ink frantically off his hands.

"It was the pen's fault" he insists to Nick and George, who both look as if they might be considering leaping out of the window to avoid helping David any further. "And Miliband's."

Nick arches an eyebrow. "How's it Miliband's fault?"

David doesn't have any answer more mature than "It just is" so he keeps his mouth shut.

"David thinks Miliband's managed to write him a perfectly ethically polite card and that deep down, he's laughing at David's attempt to scribble something back" George replies calmly before David can say anything at all.

"He probably _is-"_ David bursts out, annoyance niggling further at the sight of the grin on Nick's face. "It's the way he _always_ looks. _I'm afraid my morally superior card does not bend the rules of social etiquette, Prime Minister-"_

"Firstly-" Nick holds up a hand. "That is _nothing_ like Miliband's voice. Secondly, Miliband is the _last_ person to lecture about social etiquette and third, what on _earth_ is a morally superior card?"

"He always does that." David glances at them both for confirmation. "Every time you look at him. He's thinking how morally superior he managed to be and how he'll be vindicated by history."

George holds up a hand and waits until David ceases what was starting to bear a disconcertingly close resemblance to _babbling._ "I hate to interrupt this monologue on Miliband's psyche but I don't think it's actually going to affect what you eventually scribble in his card-"

"He'll probably think I've forgotten him." David knows he's probably doing something horribly close to pouting and that annoys him even more. (And that is probably Miliband's fault too, as is everything.) "We've sent out all our other cards. Honestly. He'll think I've forgotten him and then he'll keep staring at me, shaking his head like we just privatized the NHS-"

George frowns. "You've been looking at my budget plans?"

Nick stares at him. "You're _not-"_

George responds with a shake of the head and a grin, which quickly slides off his face to be replaced by a frown. "Not much trust there, though, Clegg."

Nick just looks at him. "Did you _actually just suggest_ I trust Tories, after _May-"_

"I wouldn't know, Clegg-" George leans back in his chair and flashes Nick a defiant look. "I'm apparently _a very dangerous person-"_

"Because the Tories never exaggerate _any-"_

"Excuse me?" David holds up his hand, and waits until both of them fall silent, staring at him resentfully. "We are people in _government-"_ Nick immediately snorts. David glares at him. _"George and I_ are people in government" he clarifies. "You are a person....in opposition."

"Sub-opposition" George mutters. "Though I agree, it's more cohesive than the _actual_ opposition we're supposed to have at the moment."

"So we _should-"_ David says pointedly. "Have our minds on more important matters than petty point-scoring. Matters which affect the country. Matters of life and-"

"We do get the point, David" Nick chips in, long before David would have finished his speech. He glares at Nick, rather put out at having been interrupted.

"Good. So could we please get back to the important matter at hand?" David leans back in his chair. "Writing my Christmas card."

"Imagine why people don't think you're invested" mutters Nick, as George kicks him.

"I've got an idea."

"Fantastic." David lets his legs fall open, leans forwards. "What's that?"

George smiles. "We call Miliband."

David lets his head fall onto the desk.

**

Seventeen minutes, a lot of arguing and one almost-thrown phone later, David is sitting with his mobile to his ear, listening to the ringing on the other end whilst an aggrieved George and Nick watch him balefully.

"Well done" George mutters, glaring at David's desk. "It was almost like having Brown back for a second there."

Nick rolls his eyes and mutters something about "Not even _accurate"_ and David's about to snap something when there's a click at the other end and then an unmistakeably nasal voice says "Hello?"

George and Nick both fall silent, each shooting David meaningful looks, while David scrabbles for words. "Um-hello. E-Miliband. Hello-I-"

"Prime Minister?"

David frowns, so accustomed to his surname being used by Miliband, that it takes him a few moments to reply with "What?"

"This is you, isn't it?" There's a little laugh on the other end and it's so familiar-the laugh David knows all too well-that his grip tightens on the phone. "Unless your phone's been stolen by someone who manages to sound remarkably Etonian."

David rolls his eyes, as they fall back into it. "Miliband, the probability of that occurring-except if Nick Robinson's somehow involved-is so ridiculously low I can't even estimate it. Then again-given your usual penchant for estimations-"

"And you show that your usual class hasn't deserted you, Cameron." David feels the smile peek out at his mouth.

"Any particular reason for this?"

"Aside from the pleasure of your company?"

"Phoned-in company?"

"Well, that might be the best kind with you." David feels a sharp jab of joy lance into him when he hears Miliband laugh. "Anyway, I-I wanted to thank you. For the card."

"Oh." It sounds distinctly as though Miliband might be grinning on the other end. "Well, I hope it was...sufficient."

David feels his own eyebrow arch. "How on earth could it not be? Between the charming suggestion of a sudden interest in the Muppets-I think my children might be amused by Miss. Piggy-" Miliband laughs again, higher this time, less guarded. "But-yes. I wanted to thank you."

"It was a pleasure." There's a tinge of amusement in Miliband's voice now.

"Pass it on to Justine too." He might be imagining it but he thinks he hears Miliband's breath catch. He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, rushing the next words out. "I just wanted to let you know-um, your card's coming."

"It is?"

David winces at how stupid the words sound. "And...um. I didn't want you to think I wasn't sending you one."

"Oh." The amusement's still there but there's something softer in Miliband's voice too, now. David has absolutely no idea why he's suddenly scrambling for words when he can always find a line with anyone else.

"Well. I just wanted to let you know. I-don't worry if it comes a bit later. It's because-we're-just getting it right." He immediately winces at the words and it's then that Miliband says very softly "Flattering, Cameron."

"Yes. Yes, well-" David fumbles for words. "I just wanted you to know."

"Thank you." Miliband's voice is lower now, and then very quietly, he says "I appreciate it."

"Well-good. I'm glad." David just listens for a moment to the silence between them and he knows-the way he does sometimes know-that Miliband's listening, too.

(He doesn't ask himself how he knows, but then he never does.)

"I've-um-I've got an appointment" Miliband says slowly and David swallows. "Oh. Oh-yes-of course-"

"But honestly-" Miliband hesitates and then says "It means a lot that you called."

"I wanted to" David says quietly and when Miliband says "I want-I'll talk to you later, Cameron-" he swallows and tries to tamp down the unexpected flare of something a little like _joy_ at the thought that Miliband doesn't want to end the conversation, either.

"Bye, Miliband" he says, feeling that small smile creep back to his mouth and when Miliband says "See you, Cameron" he holds on a second longer than he should before he puts the phone down.

It's only when he's been sitting there grinning stupidly for a few moments that he hears a rather ostentatious coughing and only then does he realise Nick and George are both still in the room.

David immediately wipes the grin off his face but it's too late. Nick and George are both staring at him. Nick has an incredulous smile beginning to peek at the corners of his mouth. George is just smirking.

"Right-" David tries to sound authoritative but it comes out rather quavering. "Well-if we can get on-"

Nick makes a curious explosive noise that sounds remarkably like a snort and a laugh combined into one. It's George who shakes his head, leans back in the chair and says "Oh no, Dave. You have absolutely _no_ ulterior motivation for wanting to get Miliband's Christmas card right."

David glares at them both. "What's that supposed to mean?" he says and it's Nick who glances at George and says "Why don't you answer that question?"

George snorts, and folds his arms and David glares between them. "Are the two of you going to actually help, or just sit there?"

"Sit there" George answers immediately before Nick says "Honestly, Dave, aren't you a little-"

David stares at him. "A little what?" he asks and Nick shakes his head before the last word's even out of David's mouth. "Nothing" he says and he glances away. "Just...something that occurred to me."

David shakes his head. "Well, could it _occur_ to you to help?" he mutters. "Because I've asked you two-"

"Right" Nick says, wiping the smile from his face and leaning forward with that look David misses more than he'd say. "Of course. We'll get this done in an hour."

"And without getting anyone else involved" David mutters, with a glance at the phone.

George just arches an eyebrow because he never lets David get away with anything but Nick just nods. "Of course" he says. "No one else. Just us three. In an hour."

*

_"No,_ David" says Theresa three days later. "I _don't_ have any ideas for how to write Miliband's Christmas card. And neither does Michael and neither does the other Michael and neither does William and neither does _anyone else_ you've asked. No-one _knows."_

David glares. "It was worth a try."

 Theresa rolls her eyes, and the rest of the meeting is spent talking about flood defences while David winces at the news-which admittedly, is a great deal more important than writing a Christmas card.

He thinks it really isn't going too far when he asks Bercow for his input. It's only the fourth time.

However, when Bercow's head falls into his hands and he mutters something about "Five years of this and it's come to a bloody Christmas card" David has to say it might be a slight overreaction.

When he calls Samantha up in the flat to ask her how the kids' presents are coming along and her immediate response is "If this is about that bloody card _again"_ he realises he might have gone a tad far.

Naturally, he immediately seizes on a way to rectify the over-discussion of the card by calling George and Nick back into the office to discuss the card some more.

"David" says George, his voice slightly muffled due to the fact his head is resting in his hands. "This is starting to become a problem."

David frowns. "That's why I've brought you in here."

"No" says Nick, shaking his head. "No, no, no-it's starting to become a problem that you won't let this _go."_

He pulls out his phone and holds it up to David. _"Is there a reason Cameron keeps texting me?"_ Nick recites. _"He keeps asking how I'd write a Christmas card to Miliband. Breakdown or just guilt?"_

"Who's that from?"

"Danny." Nick lowers the phone. "He also asks if there's any particular reason you're so obsessed with Miliband's card in particular."

David rolls his eyes. "It's just manners."

Nick gives George a look which clearly says they've decided there's no point in arguing, and that's when there's a knock on the door, and when David says "Come in" they're greeted by the sight of Tim Farron, a smile peeking out as his eyes flicker from David to George, and then finally resting on Nick.

"Prime Minister" he says, with a quick nod, and David feels his own smile flicker into view. There's something about Tim that's almost ridiculously nice. It's a similar quality that rears its' head in Nick sometimes-less often than it used to, these days, David reflects somewhat sadly, but still enough that David notices it. He wonders briefly if it's a Lib Dem thing.

"David's fine" he says, and George arches a brow, with a quick smile at Nick over his shoulder-George is better at charming people than most (including David himself, he has to admit) have realised in the past. Nick's already grinning at Tim, and Tim returns the beam before he glances straight at David.

"David then" he says affably. "I just wanted to thank you for the lovely Christmas card. Wife and children appreciate it."

David beams. "Good to know. Thanks for yours', too-lovely drawing. Flo loves it."

Tim grins again-Tim has a habit of grinning, one of those people who seems to find the good side of everything. David wonders if that too is a Lib Dem thing.

Then his brow furrows. "Anyway-you asked me for some advice-" and suddenly, David would give anything for Tim to shut up, because he's lovely, he really is, but George is already grinning and Nick turning round with an air of triumph-

"About-" Tim begins before he's suddenly drowned out by two voices announcing, in unison, _"Miliband's Christmas card."_

David glares at George and Nick who give each other a triumphant nod which is probably the closest the two have ever or will ever come to sharing a high-five. David briefly takes a moment to contemplate that image before he turns back to Tim, who's glancing between the two with a grin. "I see I'm not the only one."

David fights back a grimace, before his voice slips out, a little more pleadingly than he'd like. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Tim frowns. "I think it has to come from your heart" he says gently. "Which sounds cheesy-God, my children would hate me-but you know what Ed's like. About sincerity and everything."

"Yeah" Nick mutters. "So sincere you had to tell the whole world that you saw me and him having a cup of tea."

Tim frowns. "On Russell Howard? It was an _anecdote-"_

"My children asked if we were _eloping,_ Tim-"

Tim sighs and turns back to David, who's shushing Nick frantically ("Almost like you're still in government" George mutters and from the look Nick gives, David would guess the other man's resisting a strong urge to kick him). "But I'd say-just tell Ed that you miss him."

David almost chokes. _"Miss_ -I-I never said I-"

George hums something that sounds like "Fairytale In New York" and stares pointedly in the opposite direction. Nick suddenly seems to find the ceiling fascinating.

"Um-" Tim is glancing at the other two as though he's caught them doing something rather concerning. "I might be about to get my head bitten off here-" He laughs nervously."But I rather got the impression that you might-miss him. A little."

David mouths wordlessly. He knows immediately from George's grin that he probably resembles a rather stunned goldfish and resolves to consider murdering his Chancellor should he ever bring this moment up.

"Um-" He can't consider the same for Tim, not unless he had the man arrested for criminal niceness. "Thank you, Tim. But-" He tries to smile. "I don't-miss him. I just-"

He searches for a word to describe constantly wanting to argue with Miliband but the man in question, rather annoyingly, not being there.

(And not even having the decency to be the Leader of the Opposition anymore.)

(Typical Miliband.)

Tim, Nick and George are still waiting patiently. Well. Tim's still waiting patiently. George and Nick are waiting smugly, irritatingly and annoyingly (the two latter directly connected to the former.)

"Miss seeing him" he eventually comes out with, which may truly be the stupidest sentence that's ever come out of his mouth, including the West Ham incident and the pumped-up cheer, which might have won an election but has had George performing endless imitations ever since (one memorable instance of which resulted in George's arms waving a little wildly and Boris, who had been standing there guffawing, abruptly ceasing his laughter as George's hand caught his shoulder and Boris had tipped slowly and inexorably sideways off his bike.) (The ensuing argument had resulted in quite a lot of words that had later led George to speculate that perhaps Boris was secretly the reincarnated form of Samuel Johnson-"It wouldn't surprise me, you know.")

Nick makes a curious spluttering sound and turns away. George immediately tilts his head to the side, face the picture of innocence, which is never a good sign.

"Well-" Tim's still smiling, even as the hint of mischief creeps into his eyes. "Easy mistake to make." He gives David a little wave, which somehow is rather endearing. "Well, I've got a few meetings but just wanted to say thanks. Card was lovely. If a rather poignant reminder."

David winces. "Sorry. Lynton's idea."

Tim arches an eyebrow. "There weren't too many tears to wipe up, David. There aren't many of us, these days."

With another grin and a quick farewell to Nick and George, he's gone, and David stares at the door for a moment before turning back to his Chancellor and former Deputy Prime Minister. "He's really quite indomitably cheerful, isn't he?"

"Boris words" chips in George, which makes David sit up straighter as the glimmering of an idea begins to form in his head.

"I notice no remorse about the tears" Nick chips in, and George snorts. "The tears aren't our responsibility."

Nick glances at him. "Apparently, most of the country currently isn't your responsibility."

"Oh, do shut up, Clegg. Try doing something useful-you know, like you didn't do in government-"

"How's the planning for the leadership bid going? Don't try that Tory Conference stance would you, almost made me sick-"

"Oh, shut up-" This time, it's David who speaks, and he's already got the phone to his ear when Nick and George both stare at him askance.

"Hello?" David holds up a hand to the pair of them, half-expecting them both to get up and leave, but they both remain sitting where they are. "Yes-yes, I need to see someone-in fact, two people-yes, it is rather urgent-yes, immediately-"

He says their names and immediately George's head falls into his hands and a slow, rather too gleeful grin creeps over Nick's face.

"Thank you." David puts down the phone and glances at the two sitting across the desk from him. "What?"

It's Nick who claps his hands together in a manner that would almost be sinister if it wasn't coming from Nick. "David, this is almost going to be worth those eight seats."

"Well, something has to be." George's voice is muffled but his head being buried in his hands prevents him seeing Nick's silent, rather succinct response.

The bickering is still going on when there's a knock on the door a few minutes later and this time it's David who has to lift his head from his hands to say "Come in."

The door opens and a familiar voice greets them all. "He probably simply requires a little _externa auxilia_ in order to craft an informative yet adequately empathetic message-"

"Well, after bringing one's rival to an ignominious defeat, it may simply be solicitous to wish him the greetings of the season-"

"To be fair, it's not as if Dave won't be _missing_ their little tete-a-tetes-"

"Well, precisely-to give a completely just estimation, it's not as if the two of them won't be finding themselves rather bereft of intellectual stimulation-"

George and Nick both spin in their chairs, Nick's face almost splitting in half with the grin that spreads over it. George just claps once. David looks up at the two men standing in the doorway and silently thanks God.

"You wanted to see us, Prime Minister?" says one, adjusting his glasses, while the other barks "I say, Dave, if this is about that wretched card, we do think things might be rather easier if you just _engaged_ Miliband in conversation-"

David doesn't even bother to argue. Instead, he just smiles and, welcoming the sight of the two men who usually leave him reaching for a dictionary, says "Jacob and Boris."

Jacob smiles enquiringly. Boris just beams. "Our predictions _are_ correct, aren't they, Dave? We _are_ here to help you with the unspeakably infuriating task of writing Miliband's Christmas card."

David hesitates. "You could say that, yes."

"Excellent." Boris claps his hands and turns triumphantly to Jacob. "Told you. We have been summoned because David has finally recognized our gargantuan command of the English language."

"I was surmising-" Jacob says, as usual carefully enunciating each word, "That it might be more closely related to the fact that we both have a certain amount of experience in the field of composing literature."

"Well, my prediction was _substantially_ more exciting." Boris claps his hands as he spins round to face David again, with a quick beam at George and Nick, who-David notices-are for once, perfectly happy to sit silently and observe the show. He observes that it might prove beneficial to summon Boris and Jacob more often simply for this unexpected bonus.

"Well, there's no need for gratuitous concern, Prime Minister" Jacob says, adjusting his glasses carefully as Nick watches him with something like bewildered fondness. "I'm sure that these irksome impediments can be corrected with the minimum of complication."

Boris claps his hands together. "Just show us what you have so far."

"Ah. Well." David reaches for the card. "Well. We have-rather-a deficit of ideas."

"Too true" Nick mutters. George's foot moves and Nick makes an aggrieved noise.

"Well." Boris beams. "Show us the damage, Dave."

David reaches for the card and pushes it across the desk. Boris grabs it, and lets it fall open. Both he and Jacob peer at the card.

They stare at it for a long moment. Boris passes it to Jacob, who stares at him, then slowly turns it over. They both stare at the back of the card.

David clears his throat. "When I said a deficit of ideas-"

Boris stares at the card as if words might reappear any moment. Jacob adjusts his glasses once again. "Prime Minister, you're aware I said there was no need for gratuitous concern?"

David frowns. "Yes?"

Jacob arches an eyebrow and then begins polishing his glasses on his sleeve. "Well, I'm rather afraid I may have to amend that statement."

*

"What is it you wish to divulge?" Boris leans back in his seat, pen caught between his teeth while George covers his eyes and mutters something about jumping out of the window. "If Miliband was standing right here, what would you want to say to him? Aside from "You poor, piteous creature" for instance."

George snorts. "I thought you were going to say "poor, piteous cretin." Which might be more accurate."

Jacob doesn't glare-Jacob never glares-but he gives George a decidedly reproachful look. "I have great differences with him politically" he says, pushing his glasses further back up his nose. "But I have to say, I do rather admire the commendable way in which Miliband has conducted himself ever since his resignation."

"And in the event of his wife presumably leaving him and his relationship with his brother being savaged even more than it already was" George mutters and David stares at him. _"Where_ did you get the idea that Miliband's wife's leaving him?"

George holds up a hand in answer, wiggling the finger that holds his own wedding ring. "Haven't you noticed? He's not wearing it."

"He was this morning" Nick argues, and David feels a strange pang in his chest. "He was wearing it on TV last week."

George snorts. "That means nothing. I mean, they've got kids, for pity's sake. You wouldn't want to split up over Christmas. You'd have to keep it together if you didn't want to send the poor things into therapy-"

"OK." David holds up his hands. "I'm going to estimate that we've got a _little_ off track, with these bloody speculations about the state of Miliband's _marriage."_ He glares at George. "Which are _completely unfounded,_ by the way."

George shrugs, unrepentant. "Wait and see."

"Like we did with people coming round to tax credits?" David arches an eyebrow and George glowers at him.

"What Boris asked-" He turns back to the two whose help he could actually _use._ "Was what I wanted to tell Miliband. And Jacob had a good idea."

Jacob inclines his head. Boris claps him on the shoulder and Jacob winces a little.

"I mean-that it would be a good idea to point out that we respect him-"

_"We?_ It's _your_ Christmas card."

David gestures impatiently. "I meant...us as a party-" He trails off at the sight of all four rapidly shaking their heads and Jacob mutters "No, no, quite inappropriate."

David stares at him and Boris hastens to explain. "Meant to be a Christmas card, Dave. A trifle impersonal to start going on about politics."

"Politics is technically the reason I'm sending the card-"

At this, David breaks off again-again, at the sight of the four of them shaking their heads. "What this time?"

All of them exchange glances and it's Nick, who shakes his head and says what the four of them are all clearly thinking. "David-politics are not the reason you are sending Miliband this card."

David stares at him. "And what's that-"

"Dave-" Boris interrupts, hastily pushing the card towards him. "What do you want to say to him? Out loud?"

David spreads his hands. "That's the bloody _point"_ he mutters, wondering just how Miliband manages to be quite so irritating without even being in the room. "If I say anything to him out loud, the whole thing just-" He gestures frantically. "Dissolves. Into an argument."

"If laughing and smirking at each other could be considered an argument, you've summarised it perfectly" George chips in and David really wonders at the wisdom of making his best friend his Chancellor.

"The point is-" David sinks back into his chair. "It's sometimes easier to bloody write things to him than to-" He swallows. "Say things to him."

He knows the four of them are exchanging glances again but he doesn't bother to look up this time. Mainly because it doesn't make sense even to him.

*

Two hours later, Sam's leaving more messages along the lines of "If this is to do with that card...", Nick is looking as though he's been punched in both eyes, the sky is rapidly darkening and David's just got off the phone with a rather irate Andy Burnham who's asked if he's actually kept count of how many people he's asked for help with "this bloody card" and if David really wants his advice, then he'd do better to just write what he wants to bloody say, rather than skipping around it like the Magna bloody Carta. Oh, and Merry Christmas to him, too.

Boris and Jacob are currently debating over the greeting.

"Of course, "Dear Ed" is more festive-summons up a jolly atmosphere, you know-"

"Precisely-and connotations of emotion, suitable for the time of year-"

"But for the message, too. _"Dear Ed"-how are you, old chum_ , that sort of thing, you know rather than _Dear Ed, how does one feel to be tasting the molasses of defeat-"_

Nick revives rather suddenly to choke out "To be tasting the _what?"_ and it's then that George leans into David and says quietly "You know, you could probably hire the two of them as your speechwriters."

David nods, observing the two heads, blond and dark, bent together over a sheet of paper with some amusement.

"It would be rather a good job for the pair of them-"

"It won't get Boris out of the leadership race, George."

George glares at him.

Several minutes later, Boris clears his throat melodramatically and he and Jacob hand him the paper with an expression of something rather like pride on their faces.

"Here you are, Dave. Took some liberties, mind you, with the planning, but-"

David glances over the plan rather quickly then slowly looks up at them. "This is a brilliant plan" he says slowly. "But you haven't actually written anything for me to say."

He waits for the explosion of thesaurus like terms from Boris, along with a fair amount of spluttering and shaking of the blond mane. But instead, Boris simply smiles triumphantly and indicates Jacob.

"The rather important point is, Prime Minister-" David's told Jacob he can call him David at least five times now, but Jacob being Jacob, sticks to the title. "We actually think it-" He glances at Boris. "Well, to put it delicately, rather _imperative_ that these words are your own."

"You know Miliband" Boris chips in. "Sincere chap. Dreadfully earnest. Probably go into some sort of quite awful cataclysmic _breakdown_ if he thought the words weren't your own-"

David stares at him. "Not really" he says. "It's far more likely he'd just send me an email, whining on about _How sincere of you, Prime Minister-"_ He pictures this and then shakes his head. "No, you're right, the words have to be my own."

"But we've provided some clues" Jacob says earnestly. "One shouldn't have to venture into this territory alone."

David squints at him but Jacob looks as serious as he always does. He knows Jacob well enough to know that it's quite possible he didn't mean it as a joke.

"And here, see-Jacob can give you some hints in filibustering, Dave, should you find yourself at a dearth of positivity-"

"Try to render it somewhat relevant-anyone can expound endlessly upon some inconsequential detail of trivia, but the trick is to ensure that some relevance can still be found if one examines one's words verbatim-"

"Yes, see, _here-"_ Boris indicates the paper. "Make sure it's something personally positive. A reflection for you both. You know, to counteract all those dreadful arguments _ad hominem_ you had to throw at each other. Just think about what you'd wish to tell Miliband, if he was-I say, Dave, are you all right?"

This is prompted by the fact David has suddenly lowered his head, fingers gripping the desk rather tightly. Jacob too is staring at him. "Are you feeling quite well, Prime Minister?"

Nick is staring at him, startled, and moves to get up at the same moment as George clasps David's shoulder. "David?"

David takes a deep breath and forces himself to look up at them all. "Yes-yes, of course, I'm fine-just um-"

He can hardly say he suddenly felt _emotional_ over a bloody Christmas card so he ends up blurting out some excuse about being tired which he can tell immediately no one believes but there's little point trying to talk about something he barely understands himself.

Which is why, when at nearly eleven that night, Sam sits down next to him and says quietly "Dave, have you thought there might be a reason you're agonizing over his Christmas card?" he almost barks out "Is there a bloody _reason_ everyone keeps asking me that?"

He sees the look on her face and winces immediately. "I'm sorry" he says, holding out a hand. "It's just-honestly, I'm sorry-"

It's just that at the end of that meeting, with the four of them still exchanging concerned glances, Nick had squeezed his shoulder-Nick had squeezed his bloody _shoulder_ -and Jacob had said "You know, I'm fairly sure Miliband will appreciate the sincerity" and Boris had shaken his head and said "Faint heart never won fair lady, Dave!" which is both completely irrelevant and something David would suspect Boris would know quite a bit about.

George had spent the rest of the day shooting him concerned looks and by the end of it, David himself had been questioning why he cared so much about Miliband's bloody card.

But now, staring at it, all he can think is that this time last year, his and Miliband's cards were hardly affectionate in most people's eyes. But to David, there always was something in there, some undercurrent of something like a grudging fondness, an affection that might have been borne through arguments and disagreements and debates but might have been through that reluctant sense of them both enjoying those disagreements. And from times when Miliband's eyes had met his across a hall or next to him listening to some speech and the same grin had split both of their mouths in two at the same time, and there'd been something there, sometimes just a quietness between them that David hadn't shared with Tony, with Brown-certainly doesn't share with Corbyn.

It's just something infuriatingly- _Milibandy._

And now, he has no idea what to say to him, when his life used to revolve around what to say to Miliband.

It occurs to David that the others would probably say it still _does._

Now, Sam's looking at him quietly and he says to her "I'm sorry."

He's not entirely sure what he's saying sorry for.

But Sam says "There's a reason, isn't there?" and he shakes his head frantically, because there can't be a reason. There just- _cannot_ be a reason-other than _courtesy-_

David knows no one would believe that any more than they'd believe him borrowing Corbyn's blazer.

He doesn't even believe it himself.

He waits too long to answer Sam's question and then stares at her. "I love you" he says stupidly, as if he's just told her he's been involved in a six-month affair with a Downing Street aide.

Sam just smiles very, very tiredly, and looks at her husband for a while, as if taking him in. "I know" she says simply. "And I know you need to get this finished and be honest with him because it's driving you mad."

David stares at her. "I don't know-" he says and then a little louder "I don't know."

"You don't know" she says quietly and then "You don't know what?"

"I don't know-" He tips his head back. "What everyone means by being _honest."_ He glares at the table as though it's all the table's fault. "All I wanted was to send him a bloody Christmas card" he mutters and he can't believe that that was how this all started.

Sam covers his hand. "I think it might have started with that" she says and David can't even look at her. "But this-"

Her voice hovers and David shakes his head because she can't be this calm, she can't honestly be this _calm,_ when she's asking if he has some-some _ulterior motive_ for sending Miliband a Christmas card.

"How-" He shakes his head. "How are you- _asking_ if-"

Sam squeezes his hand once and then says "David-" She laughs and it's such a sad sound. "David, I think you might have been the only one _not_ asking."

"But-" He's shaking his head because _this makes no sense_. He's tried to write Miliband a damn Christmas card and for his troubles, he's had half his Cabinet implying he's got some terrible secret he needs to confess and the other half looking at him as if he might fall apart any moment. He's got George constantly looking as if he might ask something and then staying quiet-which for George is worrying behaviour in itself-and Nick constantly glancing between him and Miliband with a grin that gives David a concerning urge to hit him, and Boris now arching his eyebrows mischievously every time he sees David which is just downright irritating.

(Tim and Jacob do none of these things, both being far too polite, for which David is profoundly grateful.)

"But-all I wanted was to write a card" he says plaintively and suddenly, he's staring at Samantha because it sounds like she's asking-

"What are you asking me?" he asks and Samantha just looks at him. "What's _everyone_ asking me? Why can't I write Miliband a bloody _card_ without everyone looking at me like-there's something more to it?"

Samantha puts a hand on his arm then, very gently. "Dave" she says softly. "Do you honestly think I'm blind?"

David stares at her. "No-"

Samantha laughs, and it's gentler still this time. "Anyone could see you were upset when he resigned-"

David blinks because if it's about _that-"_ Of course I was upset when he resigned. I was _used_ to him-"

Sam raises a sceptical eyebrow the same way she did when they were young and on that holiday and he found himself stammering at her (which was downright ridiculous because he never stammered around girls) that he honestly just wondered if she'd like to go for a walk and that it didn't have to _mean_ anything-

"I was" he argues stupidly, just the same way he did then. "And-of course I was sad-it would be ridiculous if I wasn't-"

He quiets when Sam takes his hand and says, very quietly "You weren't that upset when Tony resigned."

"Well-Tony-"

"You weren't that upset when Gordon resigned-"

"Of course I wasn't" David argues. "Gordon resigning had sort of been the goal all along."

"And Ed resigning wasn't?"

David resents the use of the first name. "Miliband resigning" he says shortly. "Was what ended up happening. It wasn't what I'd set out to achieve, necessarily-but it was just the repercussion. It didn't mean I wanted it to happen."

Sam just looks at him. "You were upset" she says quietly and David shakes his head which is rather ridiculous because he doesn't know what he's going to say in his defence. "I was-"

His voice catches because he's not sure what he was but then is when Samantha says "David, no one acts like this over a Christmas card."

He can't deny that, so he just looks at her and says "I love you."

Sam looks as if she might say something else for a moment and then instead just says "I know."

David can't look at her, and his eyes fall to one of the first scribbled lines in Miliband's card to him, which is lying open on the table.

_Dear David_

_I would use the title Prime Minister but I'm sure that you don't need another reminder of your victory. (I don't doubt you'd appreciate one.)_

He feels a smile flicker back at his mouth and knows that only Miliband would get that smile and he doesn't know if that makes him laugh or not.

It's later, when he's lying in bed staring at the ceiling that Sam touches his shoulder and says "Dave, you know I'm not angry, don't you?"

David can't look at her and tells himself that's not an admission but he covers her hand with his own and holds on tight.

*

It's the next day that David walks into his office and knows that he needs to do something. The time has come for drastic action.

George listens to his plan and provides his usual compassionate, empathetic support by saying "This time, Dave, you truly do require a strait jacket" but when David tells him he and Nick are perfectly welcome to leave if they wish, George sighs, folds his arms and leaning back, says "No, I might as well see this ludicrous plan to its' disastrous conclusion."

It's when Nick turns up as well-responding to David's request with the line "At this rate, I'll be seeing more of you than I did when I was in office"-that David feels that odd pang of emotion again, only this time it's not over Miliband. It's watching the two of them in front of him, bickering a little, and George telling him that Danny texted to let him know that David could see the card he'd sent George if he wanted ideas and that Danny-"being Danny" as George put it, rolling his eyes-thought that David's desire to get the card just right was rather noble.

Of course, Danny may think otherwise once he hears of the drastic measures David is now taking.

"You're kidding me" Nick says succinctly whilst George simply says "You have finally lost your mind."

"It's him or Brown" David says calmly and at that, George almost chokes.

When the knock on the door comes a few moments later, George almost jumps out of his skin while Nick smirks. "We could bet that he'll read out an email. I want to bet that he reads out an email."

David glowers at them both even as he calls "Come in" and jams his finger to his lips, even as George affects an expression of complete innocence while Nick just leans back with the air of someone fully intent on enjoying the proceedings.

"You wanted to see me, Prime Minister?" The man standing in the doorway adjusts his blazer, looking remarkably unsurprised to see both Nick and George sitting in the office.

David tries for a smile. It's a very small smile but it is a smile. "Jeremy. Lovely to see you. Merry Christmas."

"And to you." Jeremy inclines his head as David indicates the seat in front of his desk and sits down. "I take it this isn't some kind of emergency?"

"Well-" David wrestles with the truth for a few moments but then says, reluctantly "No. Not an emergency, exactly."

"Though I'm sure you'd love to describe it that way" George mutters. Jeremy fixes him with a headmaster stare, one of the few times David has ever been grateful to see it.

"It's more of a request-" he says, as Jeremy tilts his head back to take him in.

"If I deny it, do I get referred to as a terrorist sympathizer?" Jeremy asks, apparently in all seriousness, as David rolls his eyes.

"This is actually quite a serious issue" he snaps, a little more sharply than he means to, and then softens his tone. "Sorry. It's just-I've been asking rather a lot of people."

Jeremy's brows knot for a moment and then suddenly lift as a grin spreads over his face. "Is this about Miliband's-"

_"Miliband's Christmas card."_ George and Nick take up the chorus, and the grin peeks out a little further at Jeremy's mouth.

David mouths at the air for a moment before he recovers himself. "See, this is why I need help."

Jeremy tilts his head to the side. "It's not often you'll hear me contradict that statement, Prime Minister, but what help do you think I could provide?"

David opens and closes his mouth once again before he finally bursts out "I don't know." He glowers at the desk. "I've no idea what to write to Miliband and it doesn't _help-"_ He snaps his head up to glare at the others. "When everyone keeps implying there are _ulterior motives."_

Jeremy tilts his head, ignoring George's sniggering. "How many people have you asked for help?"

David swallows. "Well."

He tries to remember. It's Nick who mutters "It would be quicker to ask the people he _hasn't."_

Jeremy seems to be struggling to hold back a grin. David tries once again to glare. "It's not funny" he mutters, and Jeremy immediately wipes the grin from his face and sits up straight. "Of course not."

"I wanted-" David hears vaguely that his own voice has become somewhat plaintive but he's suddenly so despondent he doesn't care. "All I wanted was to do something for him."

George's sniggering dies away. David can feel all three of their gazes fixed on him but somehow he doesn't care. "Just to do something" he says, resisting the urge to kick the leg of his desk like a child. "So that Miliband wouldn't-be sitting around, harbouring some-some kind of _loathing-"_

"He isn't" says Jeremy immediately and David's still saying "Thinking about how much he-" and then he trails off and says, rather ungrammatically, "Wa-wh-what?"

Jeremy shrugs as if he's said nothing particularly unusual. "He isn't. Harbouring loathing. Not even close."

David tries to ignore the sudden rush of something like joy that that idea gives him. "How do you-"

Jeremy just laughs then. "David" he says quietly. "Miliband does not hate you."

"How do _you_ know?" David asks, not caring if the words sound childish.

Jeremy looks straight at David then. "Miliband sent you a card, didn't he?"

George and Nick have both gone very still. David frowns. "He always sends me a card."

Jeremy looks at David for a long moment, as if trying to make up his mind as to whether or not to say something. Then, he says slowly "He went through eight drafts."

For a long moment, David's sure he's misheard. "He-"

"Eight drafts" Jeremy says again. "Eight drafts of your Christmas card."

David's hands curl into fists and open again. He chews his lip. His mouth is suddenly intensely dry.

Jeremy keeps his eyes on David's face. "He didn't want to tell anyone, you know, David."

David swallows.

"In fact, I believe there was a whole draft plan."

David can't speak. He wants to say something but it aches in his chest, words not quite reaching his throat.

George's voice is gentle. "Dave?"

David lowers his eyes. "I-um-" He has no idea why he suddenly feels like this. He stares down at the desk and thinks of that Christmas card that Miliband went through eight bloody drafts over-

"Listen." Jeremy is speaking with the air of one who has suddenly decided something. "Nobody acts like that over a Christmas card."

David can't look at him because he knows all too well it's true. Except, apparently, for him and for Miliband.

"David-"

"I don't know what to do" he says and he waits for Corbyn to laugh but instead, Jeremy just looks thoughtful.

"Maybe" he says, leaning back in the chair as though to ponder the situation. "You should do a little more than a card."

David blinks. "But I've told him I'll send him one-"

"Then send him one." Jeremy watches David quietly, as if he faces this sort of situation every day. "But the thing is-Ed spent eight drafts on a card for you. Now-if there _is_ something you want to tell him-"

David doesn't even bother to deny it this time.

"Then doing something a little different might be a better way of conveying the message-" Jeremy adjusts the blazer and David has to exercise all his strength not to point out the irony of _Jeremy_ being the one telling him this.

But instead, he looks at Jeremy, then at Nick and George, who both shrug. "It's a point" says Nick, while George says "Can't hurt."

David sighs. It's less than five days until Christmas Eve and he's now got to phone Ed Miliband to tell him that yes, he _will_ get a Christmas card, and it will be _soon_ , but that's not all he'll get and no, David _can't_ tell him what else he's getting because David doesn't know.

At all.

As in, David cannot think of a single, solitary thing.

David isn't sure who first described Christmas as the season of good will and cheer, but he reflects grimly as he picks up the phone that if he found out right now, he'd be very tempted to sue them under the Trade Descriptions Act.

*

"Th-so you've phoned me-" Miliband's voice is a little unsteady at the other end of the phone which could be down to the fact he's in the back of a moving vehicle or could just be down to the fact that he's marvelling at the sheer futility of the phone call. David prays it's the former.

"To tell me that we are _getting_ a Christmas card-" Miliband sounds as if he's trying not to laugh. David glares at the phone. It's Miliband he's doing this for, after all.

"But that it might be a few days late...and something else might be happening-but you can't tell me."

Typical _Miliband_ to make it sound stupid.

"That's right." David tries for an unaffected tone. He can practically _see_ the grin Miliband is doubtless wearing and grits his teeth. "I-um-I just wanted you to know."

"I appreciate it."

"I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten."

"I didn't."

"I wouldn't forget."

"If you th-say so, Cameron."

"Well, then-what do you mean, _if I say so?"_

He can almost picture Miliband shrugging. "Just what it th-sounds like, Cameron." He can hear the hint of teasing in Miliband's voice.

(It's downright irritating that it makes him smile but then downright irritating is one of the best descriptions of Miliband he can think of.)

"It _is_ what it sounds like."

"Good."

"I know what you're about to say." David finds himself pacing, even as he's aware of George and Nick exchanging amused glances. "Good to learn the Prime Minister's keeping his promises, something of that sort-"

"Rather impressive, Cameron. You're actually developing the ability of forethought-"

"Oh, shut up." A laugh breaks through his voice treacherously, and a second later he hears Miliband's laugh crack through his words too, a little higher, a little unguarded.

"Rather unfestive, Cameron-"

"You do know I'm being-I'm talking about giving you a _card_ , and you-" David can't stop the laughter already welling in his throat, and so he chooses to fall silent, listen to the sound of what is something dangerously close to _giggling_ from Miliband.

(This happens all too often with Miliband.)

It's several minutes later that David finally manages to hang up the phone and turns to the sight of three people, all trying to hastily wipe grins from their faces.

"What?" he says, rather too defensively.

Jeremy wipes any hint of a smile from his face and simply looks back at him solemnly, the picture of seriousness. Nick's preoccupation with the ceiling has made a startling return. George, on the other hand, meets his gaze head-on.

"David" he says, his voice completely level. "We've known each other for over twenty years and I feel morally obligated to tell you as your friend and your Chancellor that you may be a brilliant Prime Minister-" Jeremy arches an eyebrow but keeps his mouth shut. "But you are an absolute _failure_ at the art of discretion."

David tries desperately to summon a denial but Miliband's odd high-pitched little laugh (of course, it _would_ be odd-everything _about_ Miliband is odd, in a rather infuriatingly endearing way) is still stuck in his head and it's then that the words burst out of his mouth. "I don't know what to say."

George and Nick glance at one another worriedly and David shakes his head. "I mean, to do. You suggested doing something-" He addresses this to Jeremy. "For him, but-" He shakes his head. "I wanted to just write something in the card-I mean, one would think that was enough for-"

Jeremy's shaking his head before David's even finished the sentence and a wave of exasperation rises in David's chest. "What now?" he finds himself saying, irked. "I know you make a habit of glaring at me in PMQs, but-"

"You were going to say, "Enough for a colleague, weren't you?" Jeremy asks, completely ignoring what was shaping up to be rather a _whine._

David frowns. "Well-yes."

Jeremy just raises an eyebrow and says "Well, Miliband isn't a colleague."

"Yes, I know he's not _technically_ my colleague-"

"No" Jeremy says, adjusting his blazer sleeve with a little frown as though it is not living up to his usual blazer standards. "I was going to say that he was never _just_ a colleague to you."

The words hover there and George opens his mouth and then closes it again, just nodding. "Good point."

David's about to launch into a point of his own when Jeremy says "What did you say the problem was, with the card?"

David eyes him suspiciously, wondering if this is some sort of trick but Corbyn looks perfectly serious.

"That I didn't know what to write" he says, and the sheer honesty of the words rocks him a little. "I mean-to say-something-to Miliband."

David has never wished more for a speechwriter.

But Jeremy doesn't say anything for a few moments and then says "Have you thought about saying any of it-" He pauses, delicately. "Out loud?"

"That's the _problem."_ David almost bursts out with the words. "The whole problem. Every time the two of us bloody interact, it descends into some kind of bloody debate-it's like living in the bloody _Thick of It-"_ He breaks off at the sight of a smile spreading slowly over Jeremy Corbyn's face. "What is it?"

Jeremy just raises an eyebrow. "Well then, Prime Minister" he says calmly. "If you can't say it and you can't write it in advance-it looks like there's only one other option."

David looks at him. Jeremy looks back.

David sits down slowly, lets his eyes meet Jeremy's. "Jeremy" he says slowly. "What do you mean?"

*

It's Christmas Eve and David is wondering if George has been right all along and he really has finally lost his mind.

George doesn't provide much comfort on the matter.

"Of course you have" he says, taking a look at the board Jeremy has provided them with. "Why don't you just knock on Miliband's door with a Santa hat?"

David glares at him and George rolls his eyes. "You didn't actually _consider-"_

It's when he glances at the door that he lowers his voice and says "Does Sam know why you're going round to Miliband's?"

David meets his eyes. "Of course."

George doesn't look away. "Does she know why?"

David looks back. "Yes."

George shakes his head. "She thinks it's something to do with the card, doesn't she?"

"No, she doesn't."

David and George both almost jump out of their skin as they turn to see Sam standing in the doorway. George clutches his chest and mutters "I thought it was just Frances who did that."

"No, George. It's a trick all wives share because of course, our whole lives _revolve_ around our husbands and we spend the hours working out how best to reprove them."

George drops his eyes. "You could always pin a notice reading "Misogynistic" to my back. That would probably be quicker."

"Indeed." Sam fixes David with a stern gaze and then says "And I know you posted the card, David."

David blinks at her. "How?"

Samantha sighs. "David, darling, you might be good at many things, but one thing you completely _fail_ at-"

_"Is discretion"_ George choruses along with her.

David frowns. "Why does everybody keep saying that?"

Samantha steps closer to him then. "Why are you really going to Ed's?"

David swallows. "I told him I would."

"When?"

"In the card."

Samantha pauses and then looks significantly at George. David does the same.

George looks from one to the other blankly. Then he opens his mouth. "Oh. Right. I'll just-" He backs awkwardly to the door and then steps outside with a wave that makes David wince and remind himself to talk George through diplomacy if he ever becomes Prime Minister.

Samantha arches an eyebrow. "So much for discretion."

They share a smile which lingers for a moment before Samantha swallows and says "Dave."

David swallows. He doesn't know what she's going to say. He doesn't even know what she _should_ be saying.

"It's just a visit" he says weakly and that's when Sam steps forward.

"I know you think it is."

"I don't know." David knows it sounds belligerent, childish, but he can't stop. "I don't know why the-the entire Parliament seems to have decided that there's something- _scandalous_ going on-"

"Dave, don't say _scandalous."_

David frowns. "Bullingdon-ish?"

"No, it just sounds stupid." Samantha takes hold of his arm, then.

David can't look at her. "I don't know _why-"_ His voice breaks petulantly on the last word. "Why-" He wants to say "Why everyone is overreacting" but what comes out is "Why this is happening."

Sam's voice is very, very soft as the words hover between them. "Why what's happening, Dave?"

_"This-"_ All of it's surging up-all the bloody weeks of wondering and fretting-and bloody agonizing over-over- _Miliband._

All over _Miliband._

"All of it." His mouth grasps at the words, struggling to explain. "All of-just constantly thinking about what to say to him-how to-how to bloody _talk_ to him, it's like-it's like having something caught in my _head_ all the time quite bloody frankly-I've had enough of working out what to say to him in the last damn five years-and now, it's like I'm constantly bloody _thinking_ about him-his _card-"_ He manages as Sam raises an eyebrow. "And I've had enough of thinking about him over the last five years" he says quietly.

He can feel Sam looking at him and David can't even deny it. "I'm sorry" he says quietly and she laughs.

"Dave, I know."

"But I-I _am_ sorry-"

"You care about him" she says and this time, David nods.

"I honestly didn't know" he says and Sam's hand is on his shoulder.

"I know" she says and David meets her eyes.

"Do you hate me?" he asks stupidly and she shakes her head. "You know I don't."

"You know I love you" he says and his gaze falls away.

But she holds his hand and he tries not to look at the Christmas tree still glittering with lights, and he tries not to hear the Paul McCartney Christmas song playing under it all.

Sam's voice is gentle. "You need to tell him, you know. For us, as well as him."

*

"I cannot believe this is how we are spending our Christmas Eve" Nick mutters, for the third time since they got into the car.

"Given the amount of times you've said that now-" George mutters. "You'd think reality might have set in. Then again, you're a Lib Dem-"

"And the class of the Tories continues-"

"Could both of you shut up?" David almost snaps. He glares down at the whiteboard he has ended up holding, the whiteboard which Jeremy has helpfully decked out in fairy lights.

(The fairy lights were provided by Tim, as Jeremy did not have any. "Rather sad, isn't it?" he'd remarked to David several days before. "Then again, I do believe terrorist sympathizers have other priorities."

"When will you let that go?" David had asked.

"Never, David. There's honest politics for you.")

"This is going to go wrong" he mutters now, staring at the whiteboard. The Christmas lights flash on and off.

"Michael wished you luck" says George breezily and David almost falls out of his seat. "You _told_ him?"

Nick shrugs. "Popular knowledge. Everyone's waiting for the conclusion."

"It's practically the next Nativity."

David almost chokes. "What, with Miliband and I giving birth to a sodding Christmas card?"

Nick winces. "Don't put that image in my head."

"Speaking of images-" says George, who's looking rather ill. "Do you actually know where Miliband's house is?"

"Of course I do." David sits back, then suddenly thinks, before he leans forward to the driver. "You do know where we're going, don't you?"

The driver turns back to him with a comforting grin-and then shrugs. "We're waiting for your instructions."

"But-I _gave_ you the instructions!" David almost explodes. "I said-Ed Miliband's house-"

The driver shrugs, apparently completely unruffled. "You can't put that into Google Maps though, sir. I mean, I put it into Google but I get results for a hashtag and a few teenagers crying over his resignation and calling the guy-" He pulls the car over, to carefully examine his phone. " _Sexy and_ _bae af."_

Nick shudders. _"More_ scarring."

"Was that David who wrote that tweet?" mutters George and David glowers at him. "Before we go a _mile_ further, I would like it on record that I have _never_ said Miliband is sexy."

George arches an eyebrow. _"Said._ Not written. Or thought."

"I have not _written_ anything about Miliband being-" David can't say the word again. "Attractive-"

George's eyebrows travel even higher up his forehead. "Have you thought it?"

David opens his mouth, intent on issuing a furious denial-and finds himself stuttering. "I-I-I-"

The most horribly triumphant grin spreads over George's face. David is convinced he will see it in his nightmares for the rest of his days.

_"Oh ."_ George claps his hands together and Nick is smiling in a way that leaves David more nervous than he's been since May 7th.

"Can we get back on track?" He stares at the back of the driver's head, ignoring the identical grins now being beamed at him by George and Nick. "How are we supposed to find Miliband's house _now?"_

"Calm down" says George, rather lazily. "We've got the numbers of virtually everyone he knows. We'll be able to get to his house."

"What do you _mean,_ everyone he knows?" David almost splutters the words out. "You might as well tell _everyone-_ how do we know everyone's not going to-"

"Astonishingly, David-" Nick leans back in the seat, yanks out his own phone. "Not all of us want to hear you declare your love to Miliband. George and I are along under sufferance."

David almost chokes. "I am not going to-declare my _love_ for-"

"Of course not" Nick says airily, now signalling the driver. "If you don't mind, maybe we could just head to Dartmouth Park-we know he's around there, it's just a case of finding where, exactly-"

As the car moves off again, George sits up, smile springing to his mouth. "Jeremy-" David throws his head back into his hands, despite half of this being Jeremy's idea. "Yes, it's George-yes, it's about Miliband-yes, this is the Chancellor giving the Prime Minister advice again, very sharp of you to notice-rather-perhaps you should try using one of these lines at PMQs, you might actually get somewhere-make it a little more entertaining for us all, at least-" George rolls his eyes. "Yes, I am aware that I called you for help-no, this probably isn't the best way to go about getting it-because it's Christmas and you're supposed to believe in a kinder, honest politics, and stick to your principles." He hands the phone to David. "There you go" he says, leaning back in his seat leaving David to throw George a hand gesture which is merrily returned and to glare at the phone as he picks it up slowly.

"Your Chancellor could learn something about tact, Prime Minister-"

"Yes, yes, I have no doubt that we heartless and evil Tories could learn something from a crumbling and bickering Opposition-no, please don't hang up-" he groans, before Jeremy can even say anything. "It's habit, honestly, and we do rather need your help."

"What with?" Jeremy sighs. "I did _explain_ that the words need-"

"Not that" David manages, staring out the window in a vain attempt to see if they're anywhere near Dartmouth Park. "Where does Miliband live?"

There's a silence and then "You didn't even make it your business to find out where Miliband _lives?"_

"No." David feels the old urge to defend himself, to explain, rising up. "I know exactly where he lives. I've been there. I just don't know the _address."_

Jeremy sounds as if he's struggling to keep his voice level. "You've been to Ed's house. You know where he lives. But you _don't_ know his address."

"Go on. " David lets his head fall against the window. _"The Westminster bubble, you'd know this if you were more in touch with people-"_

"Actually, I was going to suggest you listen to my advice."

David briefly reflects this might be one of the only times in his life he would consider doing that. "Which is?"

Jeremy sounds remarkably cheerful. "Nothing. I don't know, either, but if you pass me over to your Chancellor, I might be able to help."

David barely resists the urge to scream. Instead, he half-throws the phone at George. George catches it, looking thoroughly amused, and as the driver turns the music to the same Paul McCartney song that was playing earlier, Nick regards David amusedly. "Honestly, Dave, you'd describe Miliband as attractive?"

David makes a noise in his throat that sounds like he's choking.

George is now deep in conversation. "Yes, I'll tell him-yes, the speakerphone is a good idea-I'm aware this might be a Christmas miracle, Jeremy-though I wasn't sure you believed in them-and yes, I will tell him-how is he-" George lowers the phone and squints at David. "At the moment, he appears to be throwing his head against the window."

Several minutes later, when George has wished Jeremy a Merry Christmas, he whistles as he hangs up. "Rather like this song" he remarks, dialling another number. David glares at him in answer. George meets his gaze with a grin. "Apparently, it's just me" he says, while Nick dissolves into laughter as David glowers at the radio and wonders if the words _Simply having a wonderful Christmastime_ were written specifically to taunt him.

"Dave-" George leans back in his seat. "There's someone on the other end here who knows Miliband's address-" Nick too seems to be on his phone and David glances confusedly between the two.

"Well?" David waits and then George lowers the phone with a frown. "And he's not answering."

David's about to shout something rather un-Primeministerial when the car suddenly pulls to a halt and the driver turns back to them all with a grin. "Dartmouth Park."

David has never felt more pity with a Dickensian hero than he has at this moment.

(No doubt Miliband would pull him up on that, and right now, David would take great pleasure in throwing that Christmas card at his head.)

**

"Right" says Nick brightly, as George paces behind him, shoes slapping the pavement as they head down the street. "Should be fairly simple to find Miliband."

"Oh, yes-" David knows it's not entirely conducive to the situation but honestly, the mess they're in at the moment, he thinks he's entitled to be sarcastic. "Why don't we just walk up and down the street, knock at each door and wait for Miliband to come out and answer?"

Nick just smiles. David stops dead. "This has to be some kind of joke."

Nick sighs. "David, do you think I'd joke right now?"

"This is why you're not in government" George informs him and Nick gives him another hand gesture, which is cut off by his phone ringing, which he nearly drops in his hurry to answer.

"Hello?" Nick's face visibly falls in disappointment as he hears the voice on the other end, and George swears at his own phone. "Oh-hi, Tim-yes, I know I don't sound thrilled-it's just we were hoping to hear from someone-David Miliband, actually-"

At this, Nick's conversation is abruptly silenced because David has grabbed his arm and hissed _"What?"_ just a few inches from his face before George grabs him by the sleeve.

"Dave, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's not as if we have many options right now-"

"Well, I'm really not sure" David mutters, wondering just how he's ended up spending his Christmas Eve doing _this_. "I mean, we've always got Nick's truly _fantastic_ idea of wandering up and down Miliband's street and just praying he comes to the door-" He breaks off at the look on George's face.

George sighs. "David, we have very few options."

David throws up his hands. "Is this the apocalypse? Has Corbyn secretly got his own way, dismantled our nuclear weapons, Korea have killed us all and this is all some bizarre _dream?"_

"Excuse me." Nick is staring at them both, holding the phone rather disgruntledly. "Tim would like to say Happy Christmas."

"And I doubt we've all been killed by North Korean missiles, Prime Minister" Tim chirps, sounding irritatingly cheerful. "I feel sure there'd have been something about it on the news."

"Thank you, Tim" David says, trying to modulate his tone a little. "Do you, by any chance, happen to know where Ed Miliband lives?"

Tim tsks on the other end of the phone. "Afraid not. Perhaps you'll have to rely on Nick's method."

George glances at David. "It must be a Liberal thing."

David stares at them both. This is all Miliband's fault. He's not quite sure how but it definitely is.

*

"I would like everybody to know" David announces, as they make their way to the first door. "That I am taking part in this under sufferance."

George stops to give David a pained look. "David, I am at great pains to point out to you that we are taking part in _all_ of this under sufferance."

"Why exactly are we needed, by the way?" Nick mutters, as George knocks on the first door. "I mean, apart from the pleasure of our company."

David's about to tell Nick just how pleasurable he's currently finding their company but then, taking him in and the nighttime mist clinging to his hair, he feels a pang of guilt. He's sure there are more enjoyable ways Nick and George could be spending their Christmas Eve, after all, and it's not as if he and George are even having much of a Christmas Day. (COBRA meetings, despite the vague suggestion that someone could bring in turkey sandwiches, will not carry much of a Christmas spirit.)

"To create a distraction" he says briskly. "Some people around here are not exactly receptive to Tories."

Nick frowns. "So I'm here as kind of a human shield?"

David shakes his head. "No. You and George are here to start singing."

George almost chokes. "To _what?"_

David arches an eyebrow. "Have you ever heard a single report of someone attacking a carol singer?"

"Have you ever heard of a single report of a Prime Minister-"

"I hate to interrupt this" Nick interrupts, fixing a bright, composed smile on his face as he presses the doorbell. "But I believe this door is about to be opened and it's going to look rather ridiculous if the two of you are fighting."

"Because _that_ is the ridiculous thing about this situation."

Nick digs George in the ribs, still with the bright, composed smile. "If we just act naturally, nobody will suspect anything."

The door opens. A woman steps outside, takes one look at them and screams.

"Merry Christmas" says George, entirely unnecessarily. David glares at him.

The woman's stammering. "I-you-you're-"

"Yes" Nick chips in, looking remarkably guilty for the simple act of confirming his own identity. "You probably do recognize us and I'm rather sorry about that-"

"Do _not_ burst into that song" David mutters to George.

"But regardless of your political opinion-" Nick beams, clapping his hands."We would love to request your assistance with one small matter. Does Ed Miliband happen to live here?"

The woman, still staring at Nick as if he's just told her the moon is in fact made out of cheese, shakes her head slowly. "Sadly, no, he doesn't."

"Sad for us all." Nick beams again, reaching out to pat the woman's arm. "But not to worry. Have yourself a Merry Christmas."

The woman stares from Nick to David and George, then pulls out her phone.

_"But first, let me take a selfie"_ George says, in a voice so utterly horrifying that David is convinced he may be permanently scarred.

*

"All right" Nick says fairly, as the three of them find the streets again, the woman having got her selfie and George's song having fortunately passed unheard. "So Miliband wasn't there. But one of them will ring in a moment-" His arm gets caught in the hedge he was brushing along and he yanks it free roughly, cursing as he brushes leaves off his clothes.

"If by one of them, you mean the press" David points out, shoving his hands further into his pockets. "I think you are very probably correct, yes."

"At least we gave someone a Christmas gift." They head up the next path as George muses. "That woman seemed _thrilled_ with her selfie."

"I doubt Miliband will be as happy." David bites his lip as Nick steps forward to knock at the door.

George glances at him. "What is it?"

David chews at his mouth in what is a decidedly Milibandy gesture. "He's not going to-" He shakes his head. "George. As my Chancellor and friend, you have to be honest with me." He puts his hands on George's shoulders. Nick stops and turns back to them both enquiringly.

David looks George in the eyes. "This is a bad idea, isn't it?"

George avoids his gaze. David closes his eyes. "Miliband will probably hate it. He'll hate the idea and he'll probably just use it as an excuse to be even smugger about sending _his_ card on time-"

"No." And suddenly George's hands are on his shoulders. "David, listen" he says, and Nick steps towards them both now. "As your Chancellor and friend, I do have to be honest with you."

David waits.

"Yes" George says, without looking away. "This is a _breathtakingly_ bad idea. But Miliband isn't going to hate it." He pauses, then says "Probably the opposite, if you want the truth."

David stares at him. "What do you-"

George touches his arm. "Dave, that _is_ you and Miliband. The two of you at times have spectacularly bad ideas. _Dramatically_ bad."

"Listen to him" Nick chips in. "Not all the time. But occasionally. Really, they're _awful."_

" And then the rest of the time, one of you will have a good idea and then the two of you will argue about it. So no, Miliband isn't going to hate you." George takes another look at the whiteboard he's carrying under his arm with the Christmas lights and raises an eyebrow. "If I have to carry this much further _, I,_ on the other hand, _might."_

He meets David's eyes and gives him a small smile. David returns it.

George claps him on the arm. "Anyway, what on earth can go wrong here?"

Nick knocks on the door. Almost immediately, several things occur simultaneously: a dog begins barking loudly, there's an ominous thudding sound from inside and someone yells from what sounds like the hallway "Who the _hell_ is that?"

George's eyes meet David's again. David tilts his head. "Would you like to amend your previous statement?"

Before George can answer whether or not he would like to amend his previous statement, the door opens and a man leans against the door frame, barring the entrance. "There's no room at the Inn."

Nick laughs nervously. "That's all right. We don't need a room. Well, in fact, we wanted to see if someone _else_ had a room-" Nick breaks off as the man leans in more closely, which is rather fortunate as George is already muttering to David "And he wanted to be Prime Minister."

"Wait a minute." The man snaps his fingers, an inch from Nick's face. "You're that Clegg bloke."

Nick gives him what might be an attempt at a smile but comes out more like a pained grimace. "Yes, that would be-"

"You're the one that nearly sold our bloody kids out over the tuition fees-"

"Yes, well-"

"Actually-" David's about to leap in here, because honestly this man lives in the same area as _Miliband_ -it isn't as though the tuition fees rise will personally affect _his_ children-but George grabs his arm and mutters "Do not open your mouth if you want to live."

This is a mistake as the sudden movement immediately draws the man's eyes to him instead. "You-" He seems to struggle for a moment and a slightly insulted look crosses George's face.

Then the man's eyes widen. "You're the fucking Tory wanker who wanted to cut the tax credits."

George never knows when to look abashed and so instead just lets his eyebrow arch a little higher. "The latter half of your sentence is correct. The former, however-"

"And I'm going to estimate-" says Nick, half-dragging George back by the arm. "That Ed Miliband doesn't live here. Unless he has somehow transformed into you and acquired himself-" He eyes the dog that has just appeared in the hallway behind the man rather apprehensively. "A Doberman."

The man swells indignantly even as the dog comes charging up behind him. "Miliband? That bacon-eating tosser-"

"Excuse me." David has remained silent thus far, heeding George's advice about extending his life, but _this_ is a little too far. "My apologies for interrupting, but I must say, you don't sound like the type who'd vote Tory."

The man splutters as though David has just suggested he and the dog are in a relationship. "Damn right."

"I can therefore suggest that maybe your party would have fared a little better if people like you hadn't wasted their time belittling their leader."

George mutters something like "Oh God." Nick appears to cross himself.

The dog heads for the door.

"Well-" David steps backwards, tugging the coat further around himself, hoping against hope his bodyguards are near enough to prevent a death by Doberman. "I was just hoping to make a point. And thank you so much for the lack of recognition. It's flattering to know I've made such an impa-"

David is fully intending on finishing the sentence but at that point, George and Nick seize his arms and bodily pull him down the path.

David would reprove them but judging by the wild barking coming from the door and the way his bodyguards half throw themselves behind them, he's willing to forgive them just this once.

"I still find it hard to believe he didn't recognize me" he mutters, which is rather difficult given that he's still being dragged along the pavement by Nick and George-whose leg catches a bin as he goes and pulls it over.

There's currently a scuffle going on behind them, presumably between bodyguards and Doberman or bodyguards and Doberman-owner, but in the midst of it David manages to catch a snatch of "I know who that is-bloody Tory twat-"

Nick pats David's shoulder in a gesture that's probably supposed to be comforting. "There. See, he does know who you are."

David isn't sure whether to take this as a compliment or not.

"The one with the fucked-up pig fetish-"

David's about to whirl round but Nick seizes his arm. "At least he recognized you correctly."

*

It's several minutes later, when they are less afraid of Death by Doberman that David looks at Nick and George and says "Who are you trying to get hold of?"

In answer, Nick hands David the phone.

"Dave!" David rolls his eyes at the voice on the other end. "Just calling to wish you greetings of the season, all that sort of merriment-Nick gave me a call, said you were looking for Miliband's humble abode-"

"Tidings of good will to you too, Boris" David says, leaning against the wall and wishing he'd insisted on them remaining in the car to search for Miliband's home. "And yes, we are."

"Fantastic. Heard about the plan-"

David nearly slams his head back into the wall. _"Why_ has everybody heard about the plan?"

"People have ears, David" George reminds him.

"And eyes" Nick adds. "And remember, you're not entirely known for discretion-"

"Right-" David points the phone at him threateningly. "The next person who says that-"

"Oh, I wouldn't murder Clegg _now,_ Dave" Boris guffaws reprovingly from the other end of the phone. "Rather unseasonal, you know-plus, he could hardly fulfil his duties in your elaborately conceived plan if he found himself voiceless due to an unfortunate denoument to his chequered life-"

"Boris-" David has to interrupt before Boris begins reminiscing about his own chequered life, and with the amount of chequers Boris's life has had, hearing it all could conceivably take up the remainder of their own. "Do you know where Miliband lives?"

Boris breaks off. "Ah. No, Dave, I don't. I mean, the area-"

"Primrose Hill-"

"The-"

"Dartmouth Park."

"But I don't know precisely the address where Miliband resides. No. To present the unvarnished truth."

David swears. "Then why the hell did you call?"

"Merry Christmas to you too, Dave." Boris sounds rather downtrodden and this time David curses himself.

"No. No, I'm sorry-" He takes a breath because it's not _Boris_ he's angry at, he reflects even as the bodyguards catch up with them. "I'm just-we need to find out and we're ringing round half the bloody Cabinet." He swallows. "I hope I didn't offend you" he manages weakly, even though it's true.

"Oh, not at all." Boris sounds his usual jaunty self, which is rather a relief. "Rather too jolly a season to depress oneself, Dave. Just wanted to wish you fortune in your quest to conquer Miliband's heart."

Any feelings of sorrow David had a few moments ago fall away rapidly. "Boris, I am not on a quest to-"

"Jacob would also like me to pass on some good wishes" says Boris, merrily talking over David. "He said-" There's a sound as if Boris is fumbling with something and then-"Ah, yes. _"Please pass on my wholeheartedly sincere wishes that he enjoy his Christmas celebrations and that he finds himself fortuitous in his pursuit of the challenge of building some sort of relationship, amorous or platonic, with the former Leader of the Opposition.""_

There's a pause during which David wonders once again if Jacob had his mouth replaced with a dictionary at birth, and the silence is broken by Boris chuckling. "Honestly, Dave, I'm remarkably fond of Jacob but he _does_ have a tendency to rather over-use his vocabulary, doesn't he? So futile when people engage in that kind of eloquence-"

David almost chokes, but somehow (and he really isn't sure how) manages to restrain himself from saying something.

He supposes that will be good practice, given what he has to do in only a matter of moments.

*

The woman who opens the next door just shakes her head when Nick opens his mouth. "Oh, you poor thing. We felt so _sad_ for you back in May-"

Nick mouths piteously. "That's-um-very kind of you-"

A little girl pushes her head round her mother's leg. "That's the sad man" she announces solemnly, pointing up at Nick, and Nick blinks down at her, while David bites his lip.

Her mother pats her head consolingly. "Yes, we felt awful. Just terrible. Congratulations, by the way-" She leans round Nick to address David and George, both of whom glance at one another, each willing the other to speak. "On winning. I didn't approve of everything, mind you, not of the credit cuts, but you changed your minds about that, didn't you? And it really _was_ rather a nice surprise, I mean, all those talk about deals and a hung Parliament when you'd worked so hard-even if you _did_ slip up on the football teams-"

"Thank you" says David rather uncertainly because there seems to be very little else to say and because the little girl is now staring up at him with an intensity that's rather unnerving.

"Oh, you're very welcome, Prime Minister." She frowns. "That _is_ the correct protocol, isn't-"

"Oh yes, that's-um-fine-"

"But yes. We felt so _awfu_ l for you" she tells Nick again, this time with a squeeze to the arm. "We were in _tears_ watching your resignation, it was just _terrible-"_

David can't tell if Nick's smiling or grimacing and he's not sure if the little girl saves the situation or not by saying "You're the man who sings."

George grins immediately. Nick blinks. "I-"

"You keep saying you're sorry."

Nick opens and closes his mouth rather fruitlessly, while the mother shushes her daughter rather overtly. "Shush, Phoebe-"

"But he _does."_ The little girl fixes her eyes on him. _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry_ -that's what he _sings-"_ she informs her mother, eyes big and dark.

Nick takes a deep breath. "I do sing that, yes."

The little girl stares up at him. "Are you still sorry?"

George sniggers. The little girl folds her arms and glares at him. "You're _rude."_

Now David sniggers and George glares at him. David nudges him and George rearranges his features into a somewhat painful-looking smile.

"Phoebe-" Her mother puts a hand on her shoulder. "Say sorry to Mr. Osborne-" David wonders briefly if this family just constantly expect politicians to show up at the door.

Phoebe sticks out her lip and Nick hastens to ask "I suppose it sounds a stupid question now, but you don't by any chance know Ed Miliband's home address?"

The woman sucks in her breath. "No, no, I don't. We see him sometimes, don't we, Phoebe? You know, in the area. But he hasn't looked very happy recently. That ring of his coming on and off, on and off-I was saying, it's a shame-but you know how marriages can be-but no, I don't know the address, I'm afraid."

"He likes bacon" Phoebe says quietly, still glaring at George. "The Miliband man. He likes bacon sandwiches."

Nick smiles. "Yes, I'd rather say he does."

Phoebe then fixes her eyes on David. "And _you_ like pigs."

For the umpteenth time that night, David almost chokes, George has to turn his face away to hide the fact he is currently almost weeping with laughter and Phoebe's mother says _"Phoebe"_ only for the little girl to turn, puzzled, and say "But he _does_ , Mummy. They've always got photographs of him with pigs. Big pigs, little pigs, cartoon pigs-"

"We don't say that. Phoebe-"

Phoebe's eyes light up and she turns back to David. "You're the Prime Minister" she says calmly. David nods. "Yes."

"And Mr. Miliband used to be your enemy."

"Well-" David struggles for a moment. "He was-well, I wouldn't say my _enemy._ But-"

"But you wanted to beat him." Phoebe's dark eyes don't waver for a moment.

David can't argue with that. "Well...yes."

"But he likes bacon."

David frowns at the bacon-related turn in the conversation. "I suppose he-"

"And you like pigs."

This time, Nick too dissolves in mirth and David can't even glare for fear of upsetting the child. "Well-"

"Bacon comes from pigs." Phoebe stares up at him, fiddling with a strand of her long blonde hair now. "Which means you like the same things."

"Well-I suppose we do, on occasion-"

"Do you like him?"

David swallows. Nick's laughter is dying away now, and he and George are both watching David, clearly waiting on his answer. Phoebe's eyes are fixed on his own.

David's heart is beating rather painfully which makes almost no sense at all. He swallows and fixes his eyes on Phoebe's. "Yes" he says quietly. "I do."

Phoebe stares back at him for a moment-and then shrugs, unfazed. "That's good. You can probably go and give him a hug when you find him since it's Christmas."

Phoebe's mother laughs but then her face saddens as she looks at David and somehow he thinks he knows what's coming. "Oh, that poor man. We felt so _sad_ for him that morning-"

David resigns himself to the fact these people seem to have near-boundless empathy, and wonders just how long it could take them to express it all.

It takes several minutes. Several minutes and by the time it's over, David finds himself wishing that it was continuing because Phoebe, who has had her eyes firmly fixed on Nick for the last few moments, points at him and says simply "Sing."

George beams. David could kick him.

Phoebe points at George. "You too."

George shakes his head and David digs him in the ribs. _"Sing"_ he whispers, less subtly than he might have done.

George lowers his voice. "I am not singing-"

"Yes, you are-"

"No, I'm-"

"Yes, you-"

"The speed with which decisions are made in your government" Nick chips in and as both David and George glare at him, he steps forward and with a ruffle to Phoebe's hair (which she immediately shakes back into place) launches into "Away In A Manger."

David briefly contemplates the idea that his former Deputy Prime Minister has finally lost his mind and is about to begin squawking or some other such indiscretion but then Phoebe turns her gaze on George and says, with a beam, "You too!"

Nick shoots George a decidedly sinister grin and David reflects that he might have taught Nick well in government after all.

Then the little girl stares at him. "Now you."

David swallows nervously. Nick and George have both fixed their gazes on him. Both of them are grinning. The little girl's grinning. Her mother's grinning. It feels like the bloody sky's grinning.

Very, very slowly, David clears his throat. _"Away in a manger-"_

_*_

A few minutes later, he's decided, as he threatens George with redundancy for the seventh time, that all went easier than expected. Phoebe had seemed rather satisfied with their performance, which she graded as 6 out of 10, and had then insisted on being lifted up and pressing her lips to David's, Nick's and even George's cheeks in a kiss (she had immediately followed up George's kiss with a tap to the head and the words "Don't be naughty or Father Christmas won't bring you any presents") and George is in the middle of expanding on just why it is _him_ that people hate, as he accidentally kicks over a plastic Father Christmas, which rolls rather sadly down the street behind him, when his phone rings and this time, when he answers, his eyes light up.

"Yes, it is an odd time to be calling-yes, we would appreciate your help-" He listens for a moment. "Yes, well-no doubt you might _not_ be his favourite person-but what can I say-I don't think he'll regret me calling you-"

"Who is it?"

"No, I haven't told him yet-"

_"Who is it?"_

"Yes, I think he would like to speak to you-"

_"WHO IS IT?"_ These last words are almost screamed into George's ear and George lowers his phone with a mildly insulted look. "Calm down. I'll tell you now."

David waits, impatiently, while Nick glances between the two, amused and the bodyguards hover.

George beams. "It's Ed."

For a moment, David thinks he might actually collapse. _"Miliband?_ Why on _earth_ are you speaking to-"

Then he sees the look on George's face and he stops dead. "Well, if it's not Miliband, then who on earth-"

The smallest smile peeks out at the corner of George's mouth and a cold, cold feeling grips David's heart. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no."

George silently holds out the phone. David can't take it so George raises it back to his own ear. "The fact is, Ed" he says, his voice distinctly muffled as though he's trying to suppress laughter. "We rather need your help."

David can't even move. It's as though he's witnessing some dreadful calamity unfold before his eyes. Which the situation, is because if they've gone to-for _help-_

George, smiling rather too much for David's liking, holds out the phone and presses the speakerphone button. There's a moment of silence, before he hears the voice he's been dreading.

"Well, well, well-" Ed Balls' voice drifts through the phone. "Apparently, you need my help, Prime Minister."

David grits his teeth. "Merry Christmas, Balls."

"And that sounds so much like an insult."

"Well, it's just your name."

George rolls his eyes and David almost kicks himself. "Please don't hang up" he blurts out before Balls can even speak. "We're in rather a tight spot and all we need is one thing from you."

"Well, that rather depends." David can almost see Balls propping himself up. "Imagine if I should turn out to be busy."

David frowns at the phone. "It's Christmas Eve."

"I may still be occupied."

"With what, watching _The Sound of Music_ for the-"

"I warn you, Prime Minister-" Balls' voice is lower now. "I take insults against Julie Andrews very fucking seriously."

David takes a long, deep breath. "All we need to know" he says, struggling to keep his voice even. "Is Miliband's address."

There's an interminable silence.

"Miliband's address?" There's a sound as if Balls is leaning back in his chair. "Why the hell do you need to know that?"

"Christmas" David blurts out. "Christmas and gifts and a desire to do some good in the world."

"Tories are familiar with that concept?"

David rolls his eyes because this is nowhere _near_ the same thing as arguing with Miliband.

"All we need is his address."

"Well-"

"Balls-"

It's George who then presses his chin over David's shoulder and says "Ed, come on."

"I don't do well with Tory appeals."

"It's not a Tory appeal. It's an Osborne appeal. Honestly-it is." George bites his lip. "Please, Ed."

"A Tory MP saying _please_ really does sound like a fucking appeal, Osborne-"

"Ed-"

Balls sighs. "Take me off speakerphone."

George does so and then smiles. "Promise that is the right address...Yes, ha ha, Tories break promises...and thank you...and if you haven't given me the right address, your former leader will presumably deal with you...yes, that is the Christmas spirit...and Merry Christmas to you too..." He grins. "See you, Balls. Merry Christmas."

David just stares at him once he hangs up the phone. George arches an eyebrow. "What?"

Nick voices what both of them are thinking with the words "Are either of you capable of having a usual, healthy antagonistic relationship with your Opposition?"

George rolls his eyes. "We have the address."

 

*

It's five minutes later that they find themselves standing outside Miliband's house. David swallows as he stares up at the door.

"Ready?"

"You'd better be" mutters George, shifting the whiteboard awkwardly from arm to arm. "The only thing these lights are doing for _me_ is stopping us all being mowed down."

David swallows and then Nick says "This is actually quite brave of you. Like in that movie."

"And you're a Prime Minister called David" George points out. "Suitable."

David blinks. "You mean _Love Actually?"_

Nick nods, and David kicks Miliband's wall.

"Ow." He's clutching his toe when Nick asks, looking thoroughly confused, "Is that your usual reaction to Hugh Grant?"

It's appropriate that right then is when Nick's phone rings and David has to watch as his former Deputy answers and says with a smile "Oh, we're fine now, David."

David- _this_ David-contemplates throwing himself into the road, flagging down a passing car and promising them a tax cut for life if they fulfil the simple task of running him over.

Nick's eyebrow arches and he holds the phone out. David Miliband's voice suddenly fills the air between them. "Is there a _reason_ you called me three times in the last hour, Clegg?"

Nick glances at David, before covering his phone. "Anyone got a cover story?"

"I'd hope it's something rather important-" David Miliband's voice escapes through Nick's fingers. "Given that it's Christmas Eve. Some sort of taunts about the origins of Christmas trees again?"

"No, I don't think Merkel's visiting this year." Nick rolls his eyes, while he mouths frantically at David and George.

"Then exactly why did you text me an hour ago with the words _Emergency, life or death?_ Unless you're now calling from a hospital ward?"

"No." Nick glances at them both desperately before David, finally losing patience, snatches the phone from him.

"We were going-" he says, taking a deep breath. "To request your brother's address so I could deliver him a Christmas present and _yes_ , it _is_ unusual, and _yes,_ it _is_ Christmas Eve, and yes, it _is_ rather over the top and _no_ , I do _not_ appreciate whatever joke you are about to make, but if you have any concern whatsoever, I have now _found_ his address, so your help is not required but _thank you_ for calling us three hours later when I was merely requesting your assistance for doing something remarkably _nice_ for your brother."

There's a long silence and then "Cameron, do you _really_ imagine I don't keep in touch with anybody? I'd be rather surprised if the majority of the _country_ doesn't know about you planning things for my brother-perhaps you could contact the BBC, I'm sure Laura Kuenssberg would be happy to come in on Christmas Eve-"

David swears at the phone.

"Charming" Miliband says, apparently unfazed. "But yes, while your gesture for my brother has not gone unnoticed, I actually called to wish you luck."

David glares at the phone. "Does he know?"

"I wouldn't know. I haven't spoken to him."

George draws a hand across his throat and then mimes stabbing himself in the back. Nick collapses in silent laughter, which he muffles with a hand over the mouth.

"Oh" David says rather pathetically.

"I wonder why you're not more popular in Europe" Miliband says, sounding utterly bored with the conversation. "With this kind of tact, you should be positively _rolling_ out agreements-but I _did_ call to wish you good luck, Cameron. Even if your gesture is ripped from _Love Actually."_

David snorts and because it seems appropriate, kicks the wall again.

"Hardly very festive, Prime Minister."

"Ow." He's clutching his toe when Nick asks, this time looking thoroughly confused, "Really, is that just a Hugh Grant thing?"

"No." David stands up, then reconsiders. "Perhaps it should be. But-" He shakes his head. "Miliband's just going to use this as something else. It's going to be _The Prime Minister is so out-of-touch, he still thinks a 2004 film is the same as-"_

"2003."

"What?"

Nick shifts uncomfortably. _"Love Actually_ was 2003."

David throws up his hands. "Well, that's what he's going to-"

"No, he isn't." It's David Miliband's voice and that makes David stop dead.

"What?"

George puts a hand on David's arm. "Miliband isn't going to say anything about you being out-of-touch. Firstly, because he probably thinks _Love Actually_ is one of those unscramble-the-sentence puzzles Libbie used to do in her magazines."

Miliband chips in. "I can confirm that that is probably correct."

" Second, because he'd have to be some kind of sociopath. Especially when you just risked the Doberman." George indicates further back up the street with his head.

Miliband waits a little longer before replying to this question. "I'm not sure I even want to know the context of that remark."

David swallows. "I-"

"We've come all this way."

"We gave up our Christmas Eve" Nick says, with a nod. "We wouldn't have done that if we thought there was no chance of this working."

"On some crazy, insane level" George says.

"Which suits you and Miliband" Nick nods.

"I might not have spoken to him- " Miliband hesitates a moment but then says "I have to say I agree with your Chancellor on that."

David takes a deep breath. "Um-" He wants to thank them-even Miliband, which is nothing less than frightening-but for some reason finds himself struggling for words so instead he just nods, which seems to be enough.

"If that was a nod-" comes the voice from the other end of the phone. "I hope I was included. Though I'd remind you I can't see through phones, Prime Minister."

David has to note that there are some good sides to the Miliband feud, namely that he will be able to avoid encountering the former Foreign Secretary today and therefore, avoid being arrested on charges of shoving a phone down his throat.

"At least we didn't have to sing too much" points out Nick, once they've wished Miliband season's greetings and hung up, and George rolls his eyes and mutters something about "Not just a blessing for you, Clegg."

David turns back to the house and grabs the board. "OK." Slowly, he takes the first step. "OK."

He glances back at George and Nick, who both shoot him a thumbs up, while George mouths something that could be "Go for it" and could simultaneously be "Get out."

David presses the doorbell.

It barely sounds before the front door's opening and Miliband is standing there. David does a double-take, because of all things, Miliband is standing there, hair messy and completely unshaven so that he looks almost stubbly. David blinks, trying to remember if he's ever seen Miliband with stubble before.

George holds up a hand. "We're here under sufferance. But we've managed to improve your street a little."

Behind them, the plastic Father Christmas rolls quietly down the street past Miliband's gate. Miliband tracks it curiously with his gaze, while David closes his eyes and despairs.

Miliband turns his attention to him, head tilted to the side curiously. "Engaging in rather a lot of th-subterfuge for a Prime Minister, Cameron?"

He's nervous, David can tell by the lisp that breaks through, and somehow that makes him immediately feel better. So, instead he holds up his hand and then writes on the board.

"What on-" David holds the board up and Miliband squints. He mouths as he reads but doesn't say the words aloud.

_Read the card out._

Miliband frowns but pulls out the card-which David had written to him to bring to the door. He lets it fall open and brows furrowing a little, reads it out loud.

_Dear Ed, First, I want to apologize for the lateness of this card._ Miliband arches an eyebrow. _Yes, Tories actually know how to apologize, something Labour can learn from._

Ed bites his lip but David can see the grin peeking out at the edges and he can feel his own smile tugging at his mouth.

_I appreciate this may seem rather strange-"_ Not after several years, Cameron" and David laughs- _but I'm going to ask you to do something for me. This isn't the only thing I'm writing to you. I would have told you this but there were th-some complications involved. Namely, that we cannot speak to each other for more than five minutes without some kind of argument erupting and I am fairly sure that is not in the spirit of Christmas."_ Miliband's laughter is sharp and surprised and his eyes flicker to David's, a smaller smile flickering into life now.

_On Christmas Eve, I'm going to turn up at your front door. (And yes, I'm aware it's your birthday.) I only need to ask you to do one thing, Miliband, and it should be simple even for you. Just come to the door alone when I ring and have this card with you. Because it may come in necessary and while I'm aware that not talking is difficult for you, sometimes writing seems to work best with us. And that's the one other thing I'm going to ask-let me stay quiet. And yes, I know a silence would probably provide you with more effective answers to your questions. (Though that may show more about your questions than my answers.)_

_And please listen. I know you might not want to but please._

_And whether you believe me or not, I am sorry. I miss having an effective Opposition._

_My apologies, please turn up._

_David_

Miliband raises his gaze to David's with a smile quirking at his mouth. "I can agree to that, Cameron."

David takes a deep breath before he turns the board back and writes a new sentence, which he turns round to Miliband.

_First, Happy Birthday. I have got you a present but I've left it at Downing Street._

Miliband bursts out laughing. "Thoughtful of you."

David smiles, then writes the next line. _I didn't bring it because I thought it might be best if you had it another time. If you still wanted it._

Miliband laughs again but softer this time, eyes flickering from the board to David. "Why wouldn't I want it?"

David swallows hard and writes the next sentence. _I know we haven't talked properly in a while._

Miliband's still smiling but his eyes soften, his hands clutching his elbows. "It's not as though you're not busy, Cameron."

David writes the next sentence. _That doesn't mean I don't want to talk to you._

Miliband's eyes meet his. David feels the heat rise in his face but Miliband clears his throat, eyes darting, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and squinting, he can see the colour in Miliband's cheeks and it makes him smile.

"Flattering, Cameron." Miliband clearly tries for a lighter tone but his eyes hover on David's face, roaming up and down, hands tightening on his elbows.

David forces himself not to check to see if he's wearing the wedding ring.

_Merry Christmas_ he writes and then _No doubt you'll say this isn't answering your questions._

Miliband laughs again, a little louder, and with a glance behind him, he steps forward and out, letting the door swing almost closed behind him.

David writes the next line slowly, carefully. _Though I don't appreciate your new leader's questions as much as yours'._

Miliband's eyebrows arch. David smiles, then writes the next line, as slowly as he can but still too quickly.

_I know you probably hate me but I needed to tell you something._

The words are too simple, too real out there in the air, and Miliband doesn't laugh this time. His eyes move over them, mouth works soundlessly for a moment. Then his head lifts and his eyes find David's. "I don't" he says very quietly and David swallows at the way neither of them looks away.

His hand shakes a little as he hesitates but then he writes _Thank you._ And then _I didn't want you to think I didn't care._

Miliband swallows. David watches the movement of his throat. "I know y-" His voice breaks off, as if it can't hold all the words. He swallows again and then just says "I know."

David's fumbling for words but he's saying none of them out loud. So he just writes it. _Your card took me three weeks because I didn't know what to say._

The truth is simpler than it would be in his own voice. He can't look at Miliband but he hears something like a sharp intake of breath.

He can't even look _near_ him but he writes it. _I didn't know how to tell you that so I didn't say it._

David can't look at him but he knows Miliband is watching him. Not just watching the board, _him,_ because he can feel it, Miliband's gaze on his hands like he can trace what David is going to say next.

_There's something I want to say to you_ he writes. _And I know you won't believe me. You never usually do._

Miliband's laugh this time is higher, almost giddy. But he watches as David writes the next line.

_I miss arguing with you._

There's a long moment where Miliband watches him and he watches Miliband, something like a breath caught between them. They've had moments like this before, in the middle of arguments or the silences that would sometimes fall just, it seemed, for them to hold onto.

And David shakes his head because he has to tell him if he's going to go to these lengths.

He turns the board round, wipes it clean, and writes one more thing. Then he turns it and shows it to Miliband.

_Don't concern yourself. I know the feeling's not mutual. But I miss you._

He doesn't look anywhere near Miliband. He can't. But he can feel Miliband watching him.

There's a brush of movement as Miliband steps closer to him.

"It's th-strange, Cameron-" Miliband's voice is lower now, edged with something that makes David shiver. "Do you ever get tired of being wrong?"

David slowly raises his eyes to Miliband's. Miliband's watching him, teeth digging into his lip even as he stares back.

David moves a step closer to him. His hand almost brushes Miliband's sleeve. "I-" He stares at Miliband, wanting something and not _knowing_ -he wants-

There's a movement from inside the house and they both move back. David's abruptly aware of the gaze that falls from his own, like a hand snatched away.

Miliband lowers his gaze and David steps back, something swelling in his throat and he just nods.

"I-" He starts to say something and then wonders what on earth he can say.

Miliband's hand's on the door and then suddenly, as if something's yanked him forward, his hand grabs David's shoulder and squeezes so hard it almost hurts.

"Cameron-" Miliband's voice is so wrenched it sounds as if it's been dragged from the pit of his throat. His fingers dig in for a moment and then he leans forward as if about to press their foreheads together.

He stops, an aching inch closer. "Merry Christmas. " The words are whispered, and Miliband's eyes grab onto David's own as they stare at each other, something desperate catching there that makes David ache, even as Miliband steps away, reaching for something he wasn't even sure was possible before.

*

David feigns sleep in the car. This means he gets to hear the entirety of Nick and George's conversation.

"Do you think it went-" Nick's voice trails off.

"I wouldn't know with either of them."

"But-what do you think?"

George's laugh is low and tired. "I don't think it's a one-way street, Nick." There's a pause, then "Maybe we just have to wait."

"What, no _Lib Dems are no good at waiting?"_

Another pause then, "If you want me to, I could always throw one in."

A snigger, then "The humour hasn't been missed, Osborne."

"Evidently. Yours' has suffered."

There's another snigger and then "So have your compliments."

Then "Well, since it's Christmas, Clegg, your presence hasn't been completely irritating."

"Well, thank you. I'll go home and paint that onto my wall."

"Right next to the number of Lib Dem seats?"

"And we almost had a nice moment."

There's a silence and then "Seriously, Clegg, thanks for being here." A pause, then "Makes David's panic easier to tolerate."

A laugh and David makes a note to yell at George at the earliest opportunity.

"Do you think he's all right?"

George hesitates. "I think he will be. I just don't know....what's going to happen."

"Well..." Nick's voice is low. "Aside from David's panic, I didn't hate tonight, Osborne."

"Of course you didn't. You were with me."

"Tory modesty, Osborne?"

George laughs, then. "Merry Christmas, Clegg."

"Merry Christmas, Osborne."

His chest is aching with what just almost happened but with his face pressed against the glass and his eyes closed, David manages a small smile.

*

He doesn't sleep much and spends Christmas Day in a COBRA meeting. No one asks him anything, even George, and aside from the concerned looks he gets from his Chancellor, the whole evening might not have been out of the ordinary at all.

It's on Boxing Day night that George calls him and waits for a few moments, waffling on about nothing at all, before David says "What is it?"

George clears his throat and then says "Oh. Someone saw Miliband with his wife. In a park."

David says nothing.

"I mean, it was some rumour-started on Twitter, of all bloody places-but I just thought you ought to know."

David says nothing, because it's not as though there's anything else to expect.

*

The floods cover Christmas and it brings phone calls and discussions and enough that he doesn't have to think about Miliband too much, as though Christmas Eve was some sort of dream that disappeared with the dawn.

Jeremy calls, obviously, and doesn't bring it up, and neither does Tim. He's grateful for it because it make it easier to pretend the whole thing never happened, and maybe that's the best thing for everybody.

It's the call from Balls that he lets ring through that surprises him, that ends up a message in his ear that says "Look, Cameron, I know we don't fucking agree on much, but just-with Miliband-leave it a few days, OK? Don't go thinking-sometimes, he can't talk about something yet, it doesn't mean anything" a message that he doesn't reply to but stays lodged in his skull, worming its' way into his thoughts.

Samantha doesn't talk about it, either, but on Boxing Day night she rolls over and puts her arm round him without saying anything and he takes her hand and squeezes it. She doesn't say anything about it over the next few days and neither does he.

He supposes there was always no point.

It aches in his chest and makes something hot prickle at his eyes when he should be laughing and he doesn't even understand _why._

(That's what he tells himself and he's thankful all the time that George doesn't ask so he can't roll his eyes when David says he doesn't know.)

It's the day before New Year's Eve that the card comes and his heart hammers when he sees the writing because he knows it too well.

He reads it and he feels sick and elated at the same time and his heart's throwing itself against his chest and his fingers tremble as he folds the letter shut.

He almost calls him over and over again, picking up the phone a couple of times but then he remembers how for once _he_ did everything that was asked and so he doesn't dial the number.

*

They have New Year's in Downing Street this year because all the flooding has meant they haven't been able to leave for Chequers and so they have a party, just a small party and he invites Nick. (George is invited; George is always invited.) The kids are running around upstairs and Sam spots him lingering by the door, the card shoved inside his pocket where his fingers can clamp themselves around the sharpness of the letters every few seconds or so.

She just touches his chin and glances at the door and says "Try to breathe, Dave" very gently.

He makes sure to answer the door each time and he doesn't let himself know whether he's expecting it or not. George and Nick, William, Boris, Michael, everyone notices he's different but they don't speak about it-which for Boris is nothing short of a miracle-and when George touches Nick's arm, David feels like he should look away but doesn't, in time to see their eyes hovering on him.

When the knock on the door comes, later than everyone else, he's made sure he's near it, and when he opens it, it's him.

Miliband is standing outside, let through by the guards that flank the outside of Number 10. David feels a brief flicker of warmth that Miliband won't have to stand outside in the cold.

"Hello" he says quietly and Miliband's mouth twitches. It's nervous and trembles a little but he says it, low "Hello, Cameron."

David pulls the door shut behind him and that's when he sees what Miliband's holding.

Miliband pulls out a card, a card containing painstakingly sketched letters. He holds it out carefully for David to read.

_Read out the card._

David's been waiting for this. He pulls out the card and reads it slowly, eyes flickering up to Miliband's every few moments.

_Dear David, If you're at Downing Street on New Year's Eve, wait for me to knock at the door. Read out this card. You have a point with the writing._

_(I won't often say that, Cameron.)_

David laughs, the sound trembling a little in the air. He reads the last few words, voice cracking.

_You don't have to do anything about it, but if you're honest, I should be, too._

_(You'd never let me forget it, otherwise.)_

_And thank you._

_Ed._

David meets his eyes and swallows, voice creeping out. "What is it, Miliband?"

Miliband's staring at him, eyes dark and narrow, the stubble still edging his cheekbones. He swallows, eyes on David's, and then slowly pulls up the next card.

_I don't hate you. I never hated you._

Something warm spreads through David's chest but all he can do is nod and say "OK." He's breathing a little too fast. Miliband's still staring at him.

_Sometimes, you can answer the question. You can answer without knowing you answered._

David stares at him and Miliband rather hurriedly pulls up the next card. _You can tell me to go away if you like._

David laughs, the sound a little too loud in the hall. "No" he says quietly. "I don't want that."

Ed nods, bites his lip. He breathes sharply, and then pulls up the next card.

_I miss it too. Not because of any slights on our leader's arguments._

David smiles.

_Because I miss being the one arguing with you._

The words are stuck in David's throat, make their way out edged with a gasp. "I know" is all they are but they ache, breath clinging to them like he's struggling for air.

Miliband's trembling a little as he pulls up the next card. _I didn't mean to lie to you, if it was lying before now. I don't even know if you know what I'm talking about._

He does. He always knew even if he wasn't sure what this knowledge _was._

_I didn't know it was there. I don't even know if it's the same for you._

David swallows. "I think it-" He can't say it because the words are just clinging to his throat, scared to jump free.

But Miliband looks at him for a long moment and then slowly, he turns over the next card. _Even if it isn't, I can't not say it. I don't know if I can say it but I can't not._

It makes an awful, broken sort of sense. And David nods, resists the urge to grab onto the door frame or anything else, just keeps standing there, his eyes on Miliband's.

Miliband's breathing much harder, now. Perhaps it was the time, David finds himself thinking madly, even as Miliband reaches inside his coat and pulls out a whiteboard, with Christmas lights haphazardly taped around the edges, carefully lowering the cards to the floor. Perhaps it was the sheer amount of time stretching out without this that made them see it, the way they'd always circled around it before, but never quite got to it, never quite seen it. Perhaps it was this that made them see it, and then Miliband's eyes meet his, his breathing harsh and broken against the air.

Miliband pulls out a pen and writes slowly, tracing the words out with a hand that trembles and then he turns it round to show David, managing to drop the cards as he does so. He blushes, eyes darting away but David can still see the message, and he almost laughs because the sight of those cards falling just makes him want to put his arms around Miliband's shoulders, even as his heart seems to throw itself against his ribs.

_It's not just the arguing I miss. I miss you, too._

The words stop in David's chest, and he wonders if you can spend so much time telling yourself you're meant to detest someone that you can be hiding from something else all along, even as Miliband's fingers catch the switch and the Christmas lights flicker into life around the words.

He steps forward because they can't leave it. They can't. But Miliband's eyes are huge and dark and fixed too hard on his and he can't look away, their gazes clashing and grabbing onto each other. David can feel Miliband's eyes and his hand hovering, ready to just touch him, any part of him, and both of their wedding rings, digging into their fingers.

"I-" Miliband's voice is a breath and his eyes flutter closed, breathing shallowly as though he's in pain. "I didn't know. I mean, part of me-part of me knew. But I didn't know-that was what I knew." He keeps his eyes closed. "I th-should have written that-" He turns away abruptly and David touches his arm.

"Ed." The name is low in his voice and he says it before he thinks. "I didn't, either, but I-" It's as though every part of them is touching, he wants to touch him so badly. "But I-I can't-we-I need-" The last word trembles embarrassingly because he's not even sure what it is precisely he needs.

Miliband just stares at him then, so sadly, the party still singing through the door and then he says in a voice that aches with something that makes David's eyes swell with something warm and wet, "Happy New Year, Cameron."

He touches David's arm for a moment and then turns away, leaving David holding the whiteboard and the cards, and the lights, which are still flashing, like an encore for a play that has never properly ended.

David watches him walk away. And he can't let him.

Quite simply, he can't let him so he just puts the cards and board down and walks after him. He doesn't know quite what he's doing. Maybe he doesn't know anymore. Maybe that's the better thing.

Miliband's still walking and he's almost reached the top of the stairs. David's faster now, because he's not going, not going to-to let-and it takes him a few steps to realise that Miliband's stopped dead.

Miliband stands there for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and even as David slows his pace, Miliband's posture stiffens for a moment before he turns round so suddenly David blinks.

David's still moving when Miliband walks back towards him. It's sudden and hard and almost frantically fast and David's mouth moves to say something.

Miliband almost storms back towards him and then David's moving forwards and Miliband's hands are reaching up, clutching David's jaw and he's pushing his mouth into David's and he's kissing him.

Their mouths are half together and Miliband's mouth is half pressed against David's chin and it's open-mouthed and clumsy and David's hands push themselves into the sides of Miliband's neck and then clutch his jaw a little too hard but Miliband's mouth is soft and open and frantic against his own. His stubble is scraping David's chin raw and he pushes himself into the sensation. Their mouths are fighting with each other and David holds onto him, hands grappling at his shoulder blades through his shirt.

It's so imperfect that David could fall in love with that, too.

Miliband's gasping so hard when they pull apart that David just holds him, like he's keeping him together. "OK" he says and his own voice cracks. "OK, it's OK."

Miliband holds onto him and pants "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" into his shoulder and David just says "It's all right, it's all right" and the party carries on on the other side of the door just a few inches away.

"God" one of them says and then one of them, probably Miliband, says "We're married" but the words are jagged with such an awful laugh that David knows that that doesn't mean what it used to mean.

"Is that why-" He looks because he has to know. "That's not the only reason-" he says, too scared to make it a question. "That-that something's gone wrong-that's not the only reason you're-"

Miliband laughs again, sharp and harsh for a moment, and then "Th-thought you were th-supposed to know your enemies, Cameron?"

And David says "You're not my enemy."

And Ed looks at him and then just tilts his mouth back to David's, softer and even more clumsy this time and it's into his mouth that David murmurs "Happy New Year, Ed."

Ed's got his face pressed into David's neck when he mouths "Happy New Year, David" but it's against his skin and David hears every word.

*

It's in the first hours of 2016, when they're both sprawled on the couch together after a party full of people who might or might not have been none the wiser and after Sam had stroked David's hair when he and Ed had kept their whole bodies angled away from each other in front of her and George and Nick's grins have caught David's eye, even though he and Ed haven't even brushed each other's sleeves in front of them, that David says into Ed's ear "I didn't give you the birthday present."

And Ed just burrows his head into his chest and says "I can wait, Cameron."

"Didn't know Labour could be patient."

"Your knowledge is lacking most of the time, though-hardly a surprise-"

David knows then it's only fair to guide Ed's mouth back to his own.

He wonders what he'll tell his grandchildren one day about how he spent the first day of 2016. But as he mouths New Year greetings into Ed's skin, he thinks that-regardless of what details he may leave out-one day, it really might make for a rather good story.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you liked it!


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